Cage Without A Key
by Deklava
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Mycroft Holmes must face the possibility of sectioning his beloved younger brother. AU fic with OOC Sherlock. Eventual Mystrade and Sherlock / John. Rated T for depression and suicide attempt.
1. Chapter 1

_Hiding in my room, safe within my womb,  
>I touch no one and no one touches me.<br>I am a rock,  
>I am an island.<br>And a rock feels no pain;  
>And an island never cries.<em>  
>Paul Simon, "I Am a Rock"<p>

Mrs. Hudson's texts normally irritated Mycroft Holmes. When he paid off the mortgage on 221 Baker Street in exchange for her vigilance, he hadn't expected to receive an endless stream of nonsense.

_Sherlock finally ate something from his daily tea tray. I think it was one of the cranberry-orange scones._

_He's talking to the skull again. If he'd leave the flat for more than a few minutes, I'd bin the dreadful thing._

_Smelled something dreadful in 221b today. Popped in, and found Sherlock microwaving something he says is just a cow's foot. Do cow's feet have fingers?_

Messages like these tempted Mycroft to cancel their arrangement, but he refrained because aging landladies were better than his camera system when it came to spying. At least she was keeping him apprised of Sherlock's activities, no matter how trivial.

On Christmas Eve, he received a message that made him glad he'd kept his temper in check.

_Mr. Holmes, please come quickly. I'm afraid that Sherlock is going to hurt himself._

* * *

><p>Mycroft knew that his younger brother had been depressed ever since Victor Trevor ended their long and stormy relationship in mid-December. Sherlock rarely opened his heart to anyone- his own family had never enjoyed that privilege- but when he did, his devotion was obsessive. He would lavish the object of his affection with attention and gifts, and in general treat them like a vital extension of himself. He craved their company like he once craved cocaine, and fretted during periods of separation.<p>

That had definitely been the case with Victor Trevor. "He's the heart I don't have," Sherlock had confided to his brother during one of their rare dinners together.

Mycroft frowned. "You have a heart, Sherlock."

"I have a mass of muscles in my chest that pumps blood throughout my body. I don't have a _heart_."

Mycroft hadn't liked that response, nor had he liked Victor, a medical student whom Sherlock met at Bart's. He'd spotted the danger signs only days into the relationship: the other man never stayed the night at 221b (according to Mrs. Hudson), and refrained from holding Sherlock's hand in public.

"He's just shy," Sherlock protested when Mycroft finally expressed his concerns. "He's not out to his family yet."

"He's not shy about wearing the clothes and platinum watch you bought him, though."

"Mind your own bloody business, Mycroft! You just don't want me to have someone in my life."

A week after that confrontation, Victor left an envelope in Sherlock's mailbox. It contained his key to 221b and a note severing their relationship. He never did return the expensive gifts; he probably needed them to impress the giggling redhead Mycroft saw him with at Harrod's the following day.

Mycroft tried to check on his younger brother in the aftermath, but Sherlock remained in his flat with the curtains drawn, refusing to open the door to anyone except Mrs. Hudson. She advised Mycroft that he looked "sad and thin, but doesn't he always when he's not with someone? Anyhow, he just sits there in his chair, playing the violin at all hours."

On Christmas Eve morning, Mycroft dropped by at Baker Street on his way to the office, but Sherlock, predictably, refused to see him. After calling, "Sherlock, I'll be at the Diogenes Club at eight for dinner if you want to join me," he left.

The morning went by uneventfully, and at noon he dismissed his staff (even the faithful and ever-present Anthea) for the holiday. After a few more hours of work, he closed up the office and was en route to the Diogenes when Mrs. Hudson's alarming text reached him. Mycroft's heart jumped and he ordered his driver to take him to Baker Street instead. The last time he'd gotten this type of frantic summons, Sherlock's uni roommate had found him on the floor of his dorm room, half-dead from a cocaine overdose.

Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway when he arrived, wringing her hands.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I'm sure he's going to do something terrible. I heard him stomping about, and when I went in to see what the matter was, he screamed at me to leave. I'm honestly frightened to go back in there. A few minutes ago I hard him _crying_. And Sherlock never cries!"

Mycroft dashed past her and took the steps three at a time. He was about to kick the door to 221b in when Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs, "I unlocked it for you, Mr. Holmes!"

He turned the knob and went inside, praying that her yelling would not alarm his brother into doing something rash.

The flat was dark and freezing. The first thing Mycroft saw was the curtains on one of the sitting room windows fluttering. They partially concealed a dark shape perched on the ledge. Mycroft knew what –_who _- it was when a deep voice, weak with despair, muttered, "Can't take it any more. I'm tired. So tired. I just want everything to stop. Please? Make it stop?"

The shape leaned forward, in the direction of Baker Street and a potentially lethal fall.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft lunged toward the window, but his brother was already in mid-air.


	2. Chapter 2

Mummy had once derided her eldest son's laziness by saying, "If you wanted to, you could move quickly enough."

She was right. Mycroft reached the ledge in time to catch his plummeting brother's wrist.

Sherlock stared up at him. The December wind whipped his dark curls about and made them stick to his tear-stained cheeks. Mycroft could hear Christmas music playing in the shops the next street over, the cheery tunes almost mocking the horror of the situation.

"Let me go!" the younger Holmes cried. His breath came out in puffs as he braced his feet against the building's wall and tried to pull free. "I don't want to live, goddamn it!"

"Sherlock, stop it! Please- let's just talk!"

"Fuck you!"

On the street below, a dark car pulled up to the curb. Mycroft saw a greying, middle-aged man step out and stare up at them, handsome face full of alarm, before rushing into the building.

Sherlock continued to fight. Now he was using his other hand to pry his brother's fingers off his wrist. "Let me go!" he half-sobbed, half-screamed again. "I've had enough, don't you understand?"

"I understand that you're in pain. You're not thinking clearly. Please, let me help you!"

"No!"

The younger man, feet still propped against the wall, made another attempt to break loose. Mycroft, thrown off-balance by the sudden movement, scrambled to regain his footing. Sherlock was pathetically thin, but holding onto him at this angle made every muscle in Mycroft's arms and shoulders scream in protest. To make matters worse, he was leaning so far out the window now that he couldn't gain sufficient leverage to pull his brother back in. If Sherlock renewed his struggles, Mycroft risked having to drop him to avoid being dragged to his own death.

He was on the verge of yelling to Mrs. Hudson for help when the same man who'd driven up moments earlier appeared at his side.

"Hold onto him- I'll pull you back in and help you with him."

Strong arms grabbed Mycroft around the middle and dragged him backward until his footing was secure once again. Then, between the two of them, they hauled a weeping, kicking Sherlock through the window and into the flat. It took their combined strength to pin him facedown on the rug while he cursed and twisted like a cat.

"Fuck off, Lestrade! And you too, Mycroft! You can't hold onto me forever!" With his blazing eyes and bared teeth, Sherlock looked insane. For a moment, Mycroft was actually afraid of his own baby brother.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, what's going on with you?" the silver-haired man demanded, grunting when the younger Holmes nearly kicked him.

"Go pull one off with Anderson!"

"I'm his brother," Mycroft said breathlessly as he pulled Sherlock's wrists behind his back and held them in place. "He tried to kill himself."

The man grimaced. "Fuck. We've got to get him to a hospital. He needs help."

Sherlock froze at the word 'hospital'. "No!" he yelled before doubling his efforts to throw them off.

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the backlit doorway, her face white. "Sherlock, what's happened to you?"

"Drop dead and stay that way, you miserable cow! This is all down to you!"

"Please," the man whom Sherlock had called Lestrade said to her, "call 999 and indicate that we have a psychiatric emergency, and that a police officer is already on site."

She nodded before hurrying away, a hand pressed to her mouth.

Mycroft's lips trembled as he fought back his own tears. He felt sick that it had come to this, and blamed himself. Yes, Sherlock had aggressively isolated himself after Victor abandoned him, but surely Mycroft could have done _something_ to keep his despair from reaching such dangerous proportions. When he realized that a landlady's vigilance was the only reason why Sherlock was alive and kicking instead of lying cold and broken on the pavement outside, bile burned in his throat.

"I'm not going to a bloody hospital, do you hear me!" Sherlock screamed. "There's nothing those frauds can do for me! Mycroft? Are you listening?"

"I'm listening. And yes, you are going. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you're too precious to lose."

Lestrade, with Mycroft's help, secured Sherlock's wrists and ankles with plastic ties. "Have you taken anything?"

"Enough of your mindless shit to last a lifetime!"

"Hold him," Lestrade directed Mycroft before searching Sherlock's shirt and trouser pockets. "What's this?"

He pulled out a plastic bottle of Valium. Mycroft's heart sank.

"Did you take any, Sherlock?" he demanded.

"Bloody figure it out yourself!"

"He didn't, although he was probably going to," Lestrade said. "If he had, he'd have passed out by now."

Red lights flashed through the windows, throwing eerily festive patterns on the walls and ceiling. An ambulance had arrived. Mycroft heard Mrs. Hudson, voice hoarse from weeping, directing them upstairs. Sherlock went rigid before his face crumpled and he sobbed. "Victor," he kept moaning.

"He doesn't deserve you, brother," Mycroft whispered. _He doesn't even deserve to exist after doing this to you. Perhaps I should do something about that._

The paramedics were all large men. Although they spoke gently to Sherlock, who was now sitting upright and enclosed in his kneeling brother's arms, Mycroft saw that they were tense beneath those bulky winter coats and uniforms. They'd probably seen people smaller than Sherlock break noses and kick out ambulance doors.

Lestrade showed them his badge and identified himself as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from Scotland Yard. "His name's Sherlock Holmes. Thirty-four years old. His brother and I just prevented him from jumping out the window. I restrained him because he became violent."

One of the men nodded. "You can cut those ties off once he's secured to the gurney."

Sherlock, who had fallen into a semi-stupor, rallied. "What do you know?" he snapped. "You've been kipping on someone's lilo for the past few nights. Is that why you're working Christmas Eve? To take your mind off how pathetic your life must be?"

The paramedic's eyes widened, but he did not take the bait. "We all have problems, Mr. Holmes."

When the four men approached to lift him onto the gurney, Sherlock trembled and burst into tears again. "I don't want to go! Mycroft, please!"

Mycroft felt nauseous. He was a rising power in the British government –some were now saying he _was_ the British government. He could approve laws, prevent wars, and even start them if necessary. But he could not take away Sherlock's pain. So he made the hardest decision of his life.

"My brother needs help. He's been unstable for awhile. I'll sign whatever I have to in order to make sure that he gets it."

Gregory Lestrade regarded the elder Holmes with compassion and admiration. "You're doing the right thing, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock renewed his struggles, eyes bulging. "You Judas bastard! You are NOT my brother! I have no next of kin!"

The paramedics, with Lestrade's help, wrestled him onto the gurney and strapped him down with wide nylon bands. When the last one was secured and Lestrade cut the plastic ties off, Sherlock went limp and sobbed quietly. The only discernible word he spoke was, "Victor."

Mycroft remained on the floor, face buried in his hands. He heard the front door open downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson speaking wearily with a man who said something about a flatshare advertisement. When she replied, he added, "I see an ambulance parked outside. I'm a doctor. Is there any way I can assist?"


	3. Chapter 3

Dr. John Watson had come in response to a flatshare ad the tenant in 221c had placed. As he knelt beside Sherlock, the younger man gulped back tears and scanned him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Dr. Watson's brow furrowed. "What?"

"You're a military doctor, with a psychosomatic limp. Recently invalided home. Was it from Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. But how did you know-"

"Sherlock is an astute observer," Lestrade broke in. "But right now he needs help, Dr. Watson, and we're taking him to Bart's to make sure he gets it."

"He tried to commit suicide," Mycroft supplied. He too, surveyed John Watson, and liked what he saw. An open, compassionate face. A genuine concern for the well-being of the pale young man strapped to the gurney.

"The head of psychiatry there is an old classmate of mine." Watson picked up a cane and struggled to his feet. "I'll come with you. See if we can skip the line at A&E."

"That would be marvellous. Thank you." Mycroft was relieved that he didn't have to make calls to achieve the same result. He was one difficult conversation away from a breakdown of his own.

Sherlock's eyes remained on John's face. Tears still flowed down his canyon-cliff cheekbones, but something about this short, limping military doctor seemed to calm him.

When the paramedics lifted the gurney and turned toward the doorway, Watson stopped them. "Hang on. It's freezing outside." He grasped the thick orange blanket, which only covered Sherlock to mid-chest, and tucked it under his chin. Sherlock's lips trembled and he whispered, "That's so thoughtful. Thank you."

Sherlock remained docile except for tearful murmurs when the paramedics carried him downstairs and loaded him into the ambulance. When Mycroft asked if he could ride along, however, his head shot off the pillow and anger contorted his face once more.

"No! Keep away from me!" Sherlock looked in John's direction. "I want _him_."

"I'll go, just to keep him calm," John murmured. "Please don't take this personally, Mr. Holmes. He's clearly not himself."

"Actually, when it comes to hating me, he is. We have what you might call a difficult relationship."

Something solid landed on his shoulder. It was Gregory Lestrade's hand. "I've known Sherlock for five years, Mr. Holmes. He's spoken of you before. What he actually said isn't relevant, but he does care more than he'd ever want you to know."

Mycroft watched from the pavement as John Watson climbed into the ambulance and the door closed. "That's very kind of you, Detective Inspector."

"Greg, please."

"Call me Mycroft then. I hear 'Mr. Holmes' from everyone except Sherlock, and you've gotten a sample of his pet names for me."

Lestrade smiled sadly. "He's a tough one to care about, that's for sure." As the ambulance pulled away, he added, "We'd better follow. The admissions personnel will want to talk to you. Let's take my car."

Mycroft stared across the street. His Audi was still there, the driver watching him with concern. He was about to decline the offer, but when his hands trembled, he thought better of it. No employee should witness his imminent loss of composure. "Yes, fine. Let me dismiss my driver though."

He made the appropriate hand signal. The man nodded and drove away.

They climbed into Lestrade's vehicle. When the doors slammed shut, Mycroft started shaking. Now closed off from a world that demanded perfect poise from him, nothing could prevent him from weeping.

"I'm supposed to keep him _safe_!" He banged his gloved fists against his knees. "Things like this shouldn't happen!"

Lestrade touched his back. "Do you know how many times I've heard that from people whose loved ones attempted suicide or worse, succeeded? It's not your fault, Mycroft. I told you- I know Sherlock. He's difficult like this. He does what he wants to do despite anyone's best intentions."

"Yes, he does." Mycroft pulled out his monogrammed handkerchief and wiped his face. "I'm all right now. Please, let's go."

As they navigated the busy streets, the bright lights and festive decorations making Mycroft flinch, Lestrade asked, "Can you tell me what brought it on? What made him jump?"

"Someone he cared about abandoned him without warning."

"Was it that trainee doctor? Can't remember his name, but Sherlock introduced us."

"Victor Trevor," Mycroft said grimly. "And yes."

The next question took him by surprise. "Are you going to see to it that the bastard gets a kicking?"

The elder Holmes regarded him cautiously. "Why?"

"Because if you don't, I will."

Mycroft scrutinized him, but saw only truth.

He didn't feel so alone any more.


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson was as good as his word. At Bart's, Sherlock was immediately taken to a private observation / examination area. John stayed with him while the intake staff interviewed Mycroft and Lestrade.

"Are your parents alive, Mr. Holmes?" the nurse asked.

"No. There's just myself and Sherlock."

She wrote something down. "And a relationship crisis precipitated the suicide attempt?"

"That's right." Mycroft swallowed. "My brother doesn't form attachments easily."

_He seems taken with Dr. Watson though, and I don't know yet if that's a good or bad thing._

"He kept screaming that he wanted to die, and resisted us pulling him back into the flat," Lestrade supplied. "I have no doubt whatsoever that if released, he'll try to kill himself again when he thinks the way is clear."

The nurse looked at Mycroft.

"I'm afraid Mr. Lestrade is right. Please warn your assessment team that Sherlock is very clever. He'll say whatever needs to said to secure his release."

She smiled sadly. "We're not new to this. I only saw him for a few minutes and his physical state alone concerns me. He looks malnourished."

Mycroft could only nod. Lestrade patted his arm.

"You're doing the right thing for your brother, Mr. Holmes, even if he doesn't appreciate it now," the nurse said. "You must feel terrible about having to take such drastic steps on Christmas Eve, but you're really giving him a gift. A second chance at life."

"Thank you so much." Mycroft glanced at her name tag: Dorothy Worden, R.N. He wondered who he should talk to in order to get her a raise.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft turned in his chair. A rotund, kind-looking man wearing scrubs and a lab coat stood in the doorway. John hovered behind him.

"Yes?"

"I'm Dr. Mike Stamford, head of psychiatry here at Bart's." He extended his hand to first Mycroft and then Lestrade. "I've just seen Sherlock, and I'd like to discuss his treatment with you."

"Treatment?" Lestrade echoed. "He's not being released, is he?"

"No, he's not." Dr. Stamford perched on the edge of Nurse Worden's desk and sighed. "He told a good story- he's certainly a clever young man. But there are enough witnesses to his suicide attempt, and I can tell by looking at him that he's not been taking care of himself."

Mycroft nodded. "So what happens now?"

"I'm admitting him under a Section 4. We rarely use it, but in this case it's necessary. It will allow us to detain him for seventy-two hours. A second doctor will see him during that time, and I suspect that any of my colleagues will agree with my evaluation." He shook his head. "I think he might be with us for awhile."

"Please do what's necessary. I just want him well."

John entered the office and leaned next to Dr. Stamford. "You should be proud. Seriously. So many family members deny that there's anything wrong. They take their loved one's illness personally."

Stamford nodded. "You've got that right, John. Mr. Holmes, we'll draw up some papers for you to sign."

"Yes, of course. And thank you."

"After he's processed, we'll give him a sedative, as he's admitted that he hasn't slept in days. Would you like to see him first?"

"That might not be wise. He blames me for him being here."

"I understand. Dorothy, please get the paperwork ready."

"Has he been combative at all?" Lestrade asked.

"No, but that could change once he realizes he's not going home tonight. The staff is on alert."

Mycroft braced his elbows against his thighs and cradled his head in his hands. "This is a nightmare. Why did it have to come to this?"

Now John was touching his arm. "Mr. Holmes – _Mycroft_- no one ever intends for these things to happen."

"I know. I-"

He was cut off by John's exclamation.

"Mike, I thought Sherlock was being detained?"

"He is. Why?"

"Then why the bloody hell is he heading for the exit right now?"


	5. Chapter 5

"What?" Dr. Stamford jumped off the desk and joined Mycroft, Lestrade, and John in staring into the waiting area. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, wearing a stolen overcoat and ID badge, moving discreetly but deliberately toward the exit. "How the hell- Gary! Stop that man in the blue coat! He's a patient!"

The security guard moved toward Sherlock, arms outstretched. Sherlock immediately bolted for the door, determined to bowl the middle-aged guard over if need be.

Mycroft leaped out of his chair and tore after his brother while people waiting to be seen for cuts, bruises, and colds stared. "Sherlock, stop!"

Sherlock kept going. The sliding glass doors parted to admit him, but when he was a few paces away from possible freedom, Victor Trevor entered the building.

For a split second the ex-lovers stared at each other. Then Sherlock burst into tears and threw his arms around Victor's neck.

"Oh, thank God!" he choked. "I knew you'd come for me. Please get me out of here! They're trying to hold me because I missed you so much."

The other man grimaced like he'd been confronted with a bad smell. He shifted, but when Sherlock refused to relinquish his death grip, Victor pushed him so forcefully that he fell to the floor.

"Don't touch me, you freak!"

Those cruel words froze Mycroft in mid-flight. _How could he?_

"It's about time you were sectioned!"

Sherlock stared up at him, mouth open and eyes wide. "What? Victor!"

The security guard swooped in, grabbing Sherlock from behind and holding his arms behind his back. Two burly male nurses, alerted by Mike Stamford's shout, ran up. They took Sherlock from the guard and propelled him backwards, toward the observation area.

Trevor straightened his rumpled coat and glared at Mycroft. "Keep your mad brother away from me or I'll get a restraining order."

Sherlock was screaming and struggling hysterically. Before hurrying to help the staff subdue him, Mycroft snarled, "This isn't over, Mr. Trevor."

The medical student sneered before walking away, muttering under his breath. Sherlock watched him disappear down the corridor and cried, "Let go of me! Victor, wait!"

Before Mycroft, Lestrade, or John could reach him, the younger Holmes elbowed one of the nurses and sent a right hook crashing into the jaw of the other one. When they tumbled to the floor, Sherlock tried to run after Victor, but Lestrade overtook him and grabbed him around the middle, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Sherlock, stop!" he grunted. "Calm down, mate!"

"Go to hell, you old bastard!"

He flung himself backward, trying to slam the DI against the corridor wall. Lestrade swerved his hips, throwing Sherlock off-balance. Mycroft and the security guard seized the screaming man's legs and, between the three of them, they lifted him onto a gurney that one of the nurses wheeled up.

"VICTOR! Please help me!" Sherlock cried. His head raised and lashed from side to side as he tried to bite Lestrade's arms.

"Fucking psycho!" one of the onlookers jeered.

Mycroft turned his head and gave the man a look that melted the smirk off his face.

"Doctor, hurry up!" the guard shouted.

Dr. Stamford, followed by John Watson, ran up. Sherlock was thrashing so violently that the gurney nearly tipped over.

"Sherlock, please calm down!" John begged. He took the stricken man's face between his hands and held it steady. "Look at me. You're all right. No one will hurt you."

Sherlock paused and stared up at him. "John," he whimpered.

"I'm here."

"Victor- he called me a freak. He-"

Sherlock stopped when he saw Mike Stamford take a syringe out of his pocket and remove the cap. His eyes widened and he renewed his struggles. "NO! Get that away from me!"

"It will make you feel better, Sherlock, I promise," Stamford soothed.

"NO!" Sherlock arched his back, the tears resuming. "Mycroft! I don't want it! I just want to go home! Stop them!"

Mycroft wanted to hug him, to caress those wild curls and promise that everything would work out. But he didn't dare release his brother's leg.

Stamford pulled the frightened man's coat open, exposing his right shoulder, and applied an alcohol wipe to the skin. When the needle pierced his flesh, Sherlock went rigid. He screwed up his face and whimpered, "No, no, no."

"You're okay, Sherlock." John's eyes glistened. He took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and started wiping the young man's tears away. Sherlock sobbed and leaned into the touch, relaxing as the medication coursed through his trembling body. His eyes finally slid shut and his head rolled to one side.

For a few seconds, a collective silence reigned. Everyone exhaled and released their respective grips on the now-still body. Then Stamford said, "I'm going to have a word with Mr. Trevor's supervisor. His conduct was unacceptable."

"Please do," Mycroft said. _And while you're doing that, I'll have a word with Mr. Trevor himself._

Lestrade was watching him. When their eyes met, the elder Holmes knew that they were of one mind.

"We'll transport him to the Psychiatric Unit now," Stamford said when the two male nurses took positions at opposite ends of the gurney. "Mr. Holmes, I'd suggest that you go home and get some rest. This has been a terrible ordeal for you as well as your brother. You can check on him in the morning."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"We'll take good care of him. I promise."

Flanked by John and Lestrade, Mycroft watched them wheel his brother toward an elevator. When the electronic doors whooshed shut behind the sombre procession, he took out his mobile and sent a text, all the while staring down the corridor where Victor Trevor had strolled off so smugly.

_Need security cameras at St. Bartholomew's Hospital to go offline for approximately 25 minutes. Problem?_

The response came seconds later.

_Not a problem, sir. Cameras will be off in 30 seconds._

Mycroft pocketed the mobile and said casually, "I think I'll take a walk before I leave."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Fancy some company?"

"Maybe."

John looked from one to the other. "I can find out what floor the bastard is working on. But be warned: cameras are everywhere."

Mycroft was impressed. The benevolent doctor was not only perceptive, he also had a sense of duty that overrode moral constraints when necessary. Such men were rare and, to him, useful.

"I believe they're all down, or about to be," he said.

John smiled slowly. The concerned and sympathetic face he'd presented to Sherlock disappeared, to be replaced by a predatory anticipation. _The man craves action_, Mycroft thought. _He probably misses the war._

Lestrade cracked his knuckles, his face grim. "What are we waiting for then? Let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

The strategy session began as soon as they stepped off the elevator.

"If we go round together, it will be too obvious," Lestrade said. "We've all got our mobiles- whoever sees the prick first will text the others."

"That'll work," John agreed. As they exchanged numbers, he murmured, "I must be going mad. I never met any of you before tonight, and already I'm joining you in breaking the law."

"Breaking the law is like having a wank," Lestrade chuckled. "Everyone does it; they just take care to not get caught during or after."

Mycroft surprised himself by laughing. He'd been wondering whether he'd ever be able to do so again. Another reason to feel grateful to the handsome, compassionate Detective Inspector- whose number was now in his contacts list.

"Let's move," he said. "We've got thirty minutes until the cameras come back on, and I'm not leaving this hospital until Victor Trevor is sorry he ever broke my brother's heart."

They split up, each one taking a different corridor. John Watson, Mycroft noticed, now walked without his cane or even a limp. Both disappeared when Sherlock tried to escape, and had yet to reappear. Sherlock had been right- the injury was purely psychosomatic, and action was the cure. Most veterans came home traumatized by their war experiences: John Watson obviously craved more of them.

Victor Trevor was working on the maternity floor that night. It was perfect: with dozens of single men prowling about, the staff would take no notice of three more. Still, Mycroft knew, they ran a serious risk, even with the cameras off. It would have been safer to wait in a parked car outside the hospital, follow Trevor home, and leave him under his own Christmas tree like a broken ornament. Afterward, it would have been his word against a government official, a Scotland Yard DI, and an army veteran. But Mycroft was a Holmes, and sometimes patience was, well, _boring_. His fists ached to bury themselves in the face and stomach of his brother's tormentor, and hours of delay were unthinkable.

He paused at the infant observation room window, fascinated by the rows of sleeping or squalling babies. He remembered being taken to a similar location to get his first glimpse of his new brother. Sherlock had been premature, and spent the first two weeks of his life in an incubator. The younger Holmes had been living in his own world ever since, he realized with a pang.

Mycroft resumed the hunt after a few more minutes of gazing at Britain's future. He passed the nurses' station and turned down a short corridor that was empty except for a few unoccupied wheelchairs and a gurney. It branched to the right after ten feet, and he wondered if Victor Trevor was somewhere along its continuing path, marking charts and measuring medications, happily ignorant of his imminent season's beating.

"Cathy? We're out of towels in the linen room, and I need a few."

"I'll get more, Dr. Trevor."

Unbelievable! Mycroft smiled at his luck, tongue washing his lips like a hungry jackal.

A young brunette in cherry-patterned scrubs rounded the corner. Mycroft brought both hands to his face, partially hiding it, and faked a sneeze. She chirped, "Bless you, sir!" before hurrying past, leaving the way clear to his target.

One of Mycroft's many detractors once compared him to a perfectly groomed, overfed cat. "If you could, you'd sit in a window all day, sunning your posh arse," the man snapped, just before Mycroft threw him down three flights of stairs. The pricey suits, cultured accent, and regal bearing all camouflaged a ruthless nature. He'd killed his first enemy agent at the age of twenty-one, and two decades later, he was an encyclopaedia of murder and torture methods. He didn't enjoy inflicting pain, but for Victor Trevor he'd make a happy exception.

He palmed the mobile in his pocket. The plan dictated that he now text Lestrade and John. But Trevor was only seconds away from his grasp, and for the first time in years, Mycroft Holmes let impulse overtake protocol.

Fists clenched and nostrils flaring, he rounded the corner. Victor Trevor stood in front of a stockroom, making notes on a clipboard. Mycroft's sudden appearance made him exclaim and drop his pen.

"What the-"

"My brother's in a hospital bed because of you, Victor, and I think it's only fair that you require one too. Don't you agree?"

Without waiting for an answer, Mycroft lunged.

Before his outstretched fingers could claim the med student's throat, he was seized from behind and a damp cloth clamped over his nose and mouth, muffling his surprised shout. As he struggled, Mycroft heard Victor gasp, "Jim, what's going on?"

The voice that answered had an Irish lilt. "I saw him coming for you, sexy, and no one hurts what's mine."

Mycroft held his breath and tried to twist free, but his assailant, being shorter, bent him backward and robbed him of leverage. His lungs burned and his vision swam. In a minute he'd be forced to breathe and then he'd be at the mercy of the unknown.

"You're not the only one with friends wandering around Bart's, Mr. Holmes," the Irish voice whispered in his ear.

Mycroft choked and gasped for air, sending the semi-sweet fumes flooding into his nostrils. His knees buckled and he slumped against his attacker's body, panic dissolving into a numb silence as his eyes closed.

His last conscious thought was _I should have sent those fucking texts._


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft regained consciousness in gradual, cautious degrees. He was careful to not move or make a sound, but his sense of smell and hearing went into overdrive trying to pinpoint where he was. Both his stomach and head ached, and a dull haze clouded his thoughts.

He smelled damp, cold concrete and felt a chill tickle his nostrils. A basement room, then. He wasn't gagged, so his captor did not anticipate outside interference. That was bad news.

"Come on, Mycroft, I know you're awake. Stop pretending. Daddy's getting bored."

Mycroft shifted, groaning as his stomach lurched. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest: a straightjacket. If he'd been alone, he'd have popped his shoulders out of their sockets and worked the garment off, but this 'Jim' character would probably snap his neck at the first muscle click.

"Feeling sick? Don't worry. We have a doctor on hand."

He forced his heavy lids to open. His initial impressions had been correct: he was leaning against a damp concrete wall. A single light burned overhead, illuminating shelves full of tools and petrol cans.

Victor Trevor stood in front of the door, arms crossed and regarding him with anxiety and resentment. Beside him was a shorter man who didn't need to cross his arms and glower to be intimidating. _That must be Jim._

"Yes, I'm Jim," the man drawled in that lazy, affected tone. "Last name's Moriarty, but you can call me Jim from IT. Everyone here at Bart's does."

So they were still in the hospital. Good to know.

"Not that the information will do you much good," Moriarty continued. "You're being moved soon. Alive or dead, I haven't decided yet."

"I vote for dead," Trevor said. "His little brother was good for a few shags and some quid, and this wanker's now got it in for me. I'll never have a safe minute as long as he's alive."

"Don't be dramatic. You're perfectly safe with me." Moriarty gave him an exaggerated pat on the shoulder before stuffing both hands in his trouser pockets and ambling over to their prisoner.

Mycroft surveyed his captor. Irish origins. Black hair, recently dyed by a professional. A steely gaze that was more serpentine than human. Thin brows groomed into a sinister arch. Short and slender, but so accustomed to having the upper hand that he didn't bluster or shout like smaller men often did to intimidate. Influential, then. And dangerous.

"Careful, Jim," Victor said. "He's doing that thing."

"Hmmm?"

"Same thing his brother does. Gives you a once-over and tells you what you had for breakfast- in 2001. Or who your last shag was."

_That one's easy, Victor. _Mycroft looked pointedly at the dirt on the knees of the med student's scrubs. Trevor flushed angrily.

"Indeed?" Moriarty looked intrigued. "Okay, I'll bite. What can you tell me about myself, Mycroft? Impress me."

Mycroft swallowed, trying to eliminate the dryness in his mouth. His tongue felt swollen, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

"I can tell that you're extremely close to digging a hole for Victor here. Which, ironically, puts us on the same side."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Really? I believe you're mistaken. I'm quite fond of Victor."

Trevor nodded, but still looked uneasy.

"I don't think so." Mycroft shook his head, flinching at the resulting dizziness. "You knew my intentions toward him before you overpowered me, probably from watching the surveillance footage for the waiting area. The fact that I'm alive when you could easily have killed me proves that an enemy of his is a potential friend of yours."

"Is that so?"

"You tell me."

They stared at each other, silence hanging between them like an unvoiced challenge. Trevor wasn't looking so smug any more.

"Jim, let's just get rid of him."

"That will be my decision, Victor. Try not to be so bothersome." Moriarty sucked on his lower lip and rocked on his heels, clearly trying to reach a conclusion.

Mycroft could have said more- that Jim Moriarty was a man who thrived on useful connections because he required insulation between himself and his crimes. At MI6 they called men like this 'puppet masters'. He appeared to have no compunctions about killing, so his games were not small-time.

"You work for the government, Mycroft. That's what Victor tells me."

"I occupy a minor position."

"A minor position that enables you to shut down an entire hospital surveillance system."

"Important friends. That's all."

Moriarty chuckled. "Victor, I'm not inclined to be rash with this one. He could be useful and perhaps a bit entertaining. Text Carter and tell him to bring one of the ambulances round."

"Jim, listen to me-"

"I believe our arrangement is that you listen to me."

Victor's lips tightened, but he nodded sharply and took out his mobile.

"Something tells me you don't limit your abilities to IT," Mycroft said carefully.

"No, I solve problems in all fields."

"A solutions provider, then."

"Just so. You're quite interesting, Mycroft. But please don't upset Victor here any more. He's so annoying when he sulks."

Mycroft drew his knees up and rested his forehead against them. The dizziness was receding but he still felt weak. He thought of his brother, several floors up in the Psychiatric Unit, and fought back anxiety. He knew that Gregory Lestrade and John Watson would take care of Sherlock until he figured out how to escape.

_And even if I don't, they'll keep him safe. John especially._

Moments later, a series of raps sounded on the door. Victor opened it to admit two men wearing ambulance technician uniforms. Moriarty nodded down at Mycroft and said, "Take him to the usual location. No manhandling unless it's necessary. I'll be there shortly."

"Yes, sir," one of them said. They went over to Mycroft, gripped his bound arms, and pulled him to his feet.

"Where's the ambulance?"

"Just outside, Mr. Moriarty."

"People could still be about. Make sure our patient here stays quiet."

"Yes, sir."

A roll of gauze was produced. Mycroft did not protest when they cut off a length and bound it across his mouth. Moriarty watched in silence as the two men walked their prisoner to the door. Then he drawled, "When you've got him secured, come back for a second pickup."

"Sir?"

"Sorry, Victor, my love, but Mr. Holmes was right. Our association has served its purpose. You've already sent one poor soul to the Psych Ward, and you know how sensitive I am. Can't have you doing the same to me one day."

Moriarty raised his shirt and produced a gun- complete with small silencer- from its hiding place in his waistband. Victor Trevor opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, a bullet crashed into his brain.

The pseudo-technicians flinched. Mycroft stared down at the body, with its ruined head and the rivulet of blood that coursed across the grimy floor. It was a horrible sight, but all he felt was triumph.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Moriarty said brightly. "This should start our association on a pleasant note. Now, I really must be-"

A young woman's voice interrupted him. "Jim? Are you in there?"


	8. Chapter 8

Moriarty recoiled at the voice but recovered quickly. He gestured for silence; one of the escorts pressed a hand tightly over Mycroft's already-gagged mouth.

"Just a moment, Molly. Be right out."

Footsteps approached. "Paul said he saw you and Dr. Trevor transporting a body into the service elevator and now there's an ambulance here. Is everything all right?"

The Irishman snarled wordlessly before replying, "Yes, dear. We had an emergency, but it's okay now. I'll meet you upstairs, and we'll go to the Fox when your shift ends."

"Emergency?" Her voice was right outside the door now. "What happened?"

Jim cursed under his breath and took his gun out again. Mycroft tensed. If this Molly, who sounded young and naive, didn't turn away right now, she was dead.

Or was she? Moriarty actually looked conflicted. He clenched his teeth and wiped his forehead with the back of his gun hand. "Follow my lead," he finally hissed at the two men. "And you, Mycroft: struggle all you like. It will make for a better cover."

He pocketed the weapon, grabbed the front of Mycroft's straightjacket and tugged him forward. "Easy with him, boys," he said loudly. "Poor fellow's out of his head."

Pulled by Moriarty and propelled by the men in AT uniforms, Mycroft stumbled out of the utility closet. A quick scan of his new surroundings revealed that they were in an isolated section of the underground parking garage. An ambulance idled nearby, its driver watching them uneasily.

A young woman in scrubs and a lab coat stood before them, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Oh, my God!" she gasped.

Jim released Mycroft and hurried to close the closet door, hiding Victor Trevor's corpse from view. Mycroft heard a key turn in the lock.

"Molly, this is my cousin Mike," he said soberly. "Escaped from St. Thomas earlier tonight and came here looking for me, thinking I'd help him hide." His face was a mask of distress. "When I refused him, he became quite violent and Dr. Trevor had to sedate him and call an ambulance. He recovered rather quickly and tried to bite us, hence the disturbing way we had to secure him."

Molly was in her mid to late twenties, with a face that might have been pretty if she weren't frowning. Her light brown hair was parted to the side, but the roots stood at an odd angle: Mycroft deduced that she'd worn it differently earlier, and hastily changed it. Traces of quickly removed lipstick lingered on her mouth.

_Insecure. Easily influenced by external opinions. _

_And Jim Moriarty has a soft spot for her._

Molly could not tear her eyes away from Mycroft. He read her identity badge: Molly Hooper.

"Jim, that's… that's awful. Where's Dr. Trevor now? He should be escorting your cousin back to St. Thomas."

"He had to go back upstairs. Maternity crisis of some kind. He left after arranging for this ambulance. It's okay, love, these gentlemen here will take good care of him. I already called his doctors; they're waiting for him."

"Oh, dear." Molly bit her lip and looked genuinely saddened. "I hope your cousin will be all right."

"So do I." Jim took her hands in his and clasped them. "Molly, love, do me a favour. Don't mention this to anyone. If my supervisor hears that my sectioned cousin came here and nearly created a scene, it will let them know more about my personal life than I'm comfortable revealing. That's why we waited for the ambulance down here. You do understand, don't you?"

"Yes, yes." She stepped back. "I'm glad you're all right, Jim. I was worried." She smiled nervously at Mycroft and said, "Hope you get better soon. Really. You have a nice cousin."

"I'll walk upstairs with you, if you'll wait," Moriarty said.

She flushed with pleasure. "Sure, Jim."

Moriarty squeezed Mycroft's shoulder and affected a look of mock sorrow. "Mike, I'll come see you tomorrow. Gentlemen, take good care of him."

"We will, sir," one of the ATs said. "Come along, mate, we'll get you sorted out."

They pulled Mycroft into the ambulance, whose lights flashed lazy red circles on the low cement roof. When Moriarty was out of earshot, one grunted, "Jesus, why did Jim have to take a chance like that? She could talk later."

"I think he's into that girl. I've seen her around- she works in the morgue."

"Are you shitting me? He lets her touch him after she's been handling cold ones all day?"

"Sure, why not? She can touch mine any time. She's cute."

A smirk. "Want me to tell Jim that?"

"You'd better not, mate."

During this testosterone-fuelled banter, they positioned Mycroft on a gurney and fastened one strap loosely around his waist.

"Don't know who you are, but you're lucky," the taller one told him before they picked up a stretcher and climbed back outside. "Jim doesn't usually call us for live ones." Minutes later, Victor Trevor's sheet-covered body was carried in and placed on the floor.

"You want to ride with him, Paul?"

"Don't think it's necessary. I'll sit up front with you and Adam if it's all the same."

The doors slammed shut and the motor roared back to life.

So he wasn't going to have an escort during the ride. He smiled around the gag, and shifted experimentally in the straightjacket.

When his left shoulder popped, his grin widened.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong> Thanks to all of you who've read and reviewed so far! I realize I've exercised some artistic license with the brainchildren of Moffat and Gatiss, but no harm, no foul.

In this chapter, I attach an underground parking garage to Bart's. There's actually no public parking at the hospital, but thank goodness for AU.


	9. Chapter 9

Getting out of the straightjacket had been easy. Escaping from the moving ambulance posed a bigger challenge.

After glancing cautiously at the window between the ambulance's cab and interior, Mycroft crouched on his hands and knees and crawled toward the doors. He could hear his captors joking and laughing up front: hopefully they would keep amusing each other until the vehicle stopped for a red light and he could jump.

He patted his jacket and trouser pockets. His phone, wallet, and keys had been taken from him. No matter- as soon as he got to a public phone, he'd call the agency's secure line and have a car pick him up. He had to get back to the hospital –to _Sherlock-_ immediately. The moment Jim Moriarty learned about his escape, his younger brother would be at serious risk.

The ambulance slowed down. Mycroft glanced over his shoulder. Through the window, he saw an approaching traffic light blink before turning red.

The vehicle jerked to a stop. He grabbed the door handles and turned them.

"Hey! He's gotten loose!"

_Astute observation. But too late to do you any good, my friend._

Ignoring the flurry of activity up front, Mycroft flung the doors open and leaped out into the snowy night.

At this hour on Christmas Eve, few cars and pedestrians were around, but Mycroft's jump nearly sent him crashing into a dark vehicle that he immediately recognized as an unmarked police car. (_Lexus GS 450h with 3.5-litre V6 petrol engine with a high output electric motor. These systems combine to provide a maximum output of 341bhp achieving a 0-62mph acceleration in 5.9 seconds...) _He landed on the balls of his feet, swayed, and smacked his palms against the bonnet to steady himself.

The driver, a man of medium height with a short, spiky haircut, opened his door and leaned out. "What the bloody hell's going on here!" The passenger, a young black woman, rolled down her window and peered at Mycroft through the falling snow.

"Please!" Mycroft approached the man. "I need you to take me to St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

The woman frowned. "If you need a hospital why are you jumping out of an ambulance?"

Before he could answer, Moriarty's two henchmen hurried up. "Come on, Mike, you could have hurt yourself," one of them said with a sincerity that could have won him an Oscar.

"Sorry, people," the other one said to the man and the woman. "We're transporting a psychiatric patient to St. Thomas and he tried to do a runner."

_Oh, they're good._ _And unless I say the right thing very quickly, I'll be in their clutches again._

The man flashed a badge. "Police. Traffic is piling up- pull over and let's sort this."

"Of course," Mycroft said, hiding his anxiety behind a calm face.

While Moriarty's men hovered close enough to seize him if he tried to run for it, the two vehicles glided to the curb and stopped. The two police officers climbed out of their car and approached.

"Now, what's this, then?" the woman demanded. She spied the ambulance driver peering nervously at them through the open window and beckoned sharply. "You- come here now." The man swore, turned off the motor, and reluctantly joined them.

"Are you with Scotland Yard?" Mycroft asked. She looked irritated at being answered with a question, and opened her mouth to say something potentially caustic, but the man raised his hand.

"That's correct," he answered. "I'm Inspector Dimmock, this is Sergeant Donovan. What's your name, Mr.-"

"Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. Please, call Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade on his mobile. He'll verify who I am."

"Sir, you're confused," the taller 'AT' wheedled. He didn't sound so confident now. "Officers, thank you, but we won't need any assistance. Come on." A large hand grasped Mycroft's upper arm. The elder Holmes pulled away.

"Hang on," Inspector Dimmock snapped. "Mr… Holmes, is it?"

"Yes."

"Same last name as the Freak," Sgt. Donovan muttered.

"How do you know Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"He helped me take my younger brother to Bart's tonight." Mycroft resisted the urge to bark orders: these Yarders were all that stood between him and abduction. "And I believe he's still there."

_God, please let him be there. John too. When Moriarty finds out about this, Sherlock could be in real danger….._

"Sally, please call," Dimmock ordered. She pulled out a mobile and dialled, keeping one eye on Mycroft. "And Mr. Holmes, we're interested in knowing how you ended up in this… situation."

Mycroft nodded toward the Moriarty henchmen, who were visibly sweating despite the cold and flurries. "These gentlemen are correct on one point- I was restrained and being transported against my will. And if you'd care to have a look in the ambulance, you'll find that I had the body of a murdered trainee doctor for company." He turned to the duo, who'd gone chalk white. "Forgot about poor Dr. Trevor in all the excitement, did you? Should have left me behind and driven away when you had the chance. Whatever will Jim do to you when he finds out?"

Dimmock didn't look entirely convinced, but he ordered, "Open the ambulance, then. Let's have a look inside."

Sgt. Donovan spoke up. "I've got Lestrade on the line. He wants to speak to Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft let his guard down long enough to reach for the phone. A split second later, fists began flying and a gun went off.

Mycroft had been shot before. Dozens of times, during his days as a field agent. But as he sank to the icy pavement, clutching his chest and gasping, he realized that he'd forgotten how much it _hurt._


	10. Chapter 10

"He's coming to…."

"Thank God. He's lucky."

Mycroft opened his eyes and grimaced at the overhead light. "Where am I?" he whispered.

"Barts A&E." Lestrade bent toward him. "What the bloody hell happened?"

"I think I was shot."

"You were," John interjected. "But lucky for you, it was just a graze. Only required a few stitches."

Remembering everything, the elder Holmes shot up in bed, ignoring the resulting pain. Glancing down at his chest, he saw pristine white bandages encircling his bare middle. He still wore his trousers, but the ruined shirt, waistcoat, and suit jacket lay in a heap on the floor.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, swinging his legs to the side and sliding unsteadily to his feet. John held out a hand to restrain him, but Mycroft batted it away. "Where is he? I need to make sure he's all right!"

Lestrade intercepted him when he tried to yank away the curtains partitioning the bed from the rest of the treatment area. "I'm sure he's fine, Mycroft. He's under observation in the Psychiatric Unit. But you-"

"I know you need a statement, and I'll give you one. But I have to see my brother first." Mycroft pushed past him, this time unimpeded. Hearing low, tense voices murmuring beyond the curtain, he added, "In the interim, order your officers to find out if one James Moriarty, employed in the IT department, is still in the building. If he is, detain him. This is all down to him."

He didn't actually expect Moriarty to be at his desk if he was still on the premises, but a goose chase would keep Lestrade's officers from annoying him immediately.

"Fine. But John and I will go with you." Lestrade picked up a hospital gown draped over the foot of the examination bed and held it out. "Put something on first."

Despite his worry, Mycroft smirked as he shrugged it on. "Don't trust me to wander through Bart's myself?"

"Not for a minute." Gregory's mouth turned up at the corners. "You Holmeses have a knack for getting into trouble when you're on your own."

Mycroft pushed through the curtains and strode down the aisle formed by rows of facing beds. Hospital personnel paused in their duties to stare, and several uniformed police officers turned in his direction, but Lestrade held up a hand. "We're going upstairs for a bit to check on a relative, but coming right back. He intends to give a statement. In the meantime, check the IT department for an employee named James Moriarty and hold for further questioning if present."

Mycroft heard a woman- Sergeant Donovan- mutter, "All the bloody luck. The Freak's brother. Merry Christmas to us."

John's lips twitched. "I thought being invalided home would be boring."

"The home front has its own dangers," Mycroft said grimly as they waited for an empty lift. "Namely, a man named James Moriarty."

"Who exactly is he? Is he the one who shot you?" Lestrade demanded.

"No. But getting shot was the end result when he abducted me. He did shoot Victor Trevor right in front of me, though, and much as I think he deserves a medal for it, you'll probably want to charge him with murder. As to who he is, I can only give you a surface answer: an extremely dangerous individual who gets his hands in everything without actually dirtying them."

Except when he shot Victor Trevor, of course. Offend the man and he'd ventilate your skull personally; not dissimilar to Mycroft in that respect. The elder Holmes had never heard of him before, which, he tried to reassure himself, said more about Moriarty's brilliance than the inadequacy of his own people.

Mycroft shivered when Lestrade touched his back to steady him as they entered the lift. He couldn't afford to be distracted now, much as he wanted strong arms to hold him and a husky voice to tell him that things would be all right. He and Sherlock were both in danger, and vulnerability was a luxury he could no longer afford. As the lift hurtled upward, Mycroft even felt his appetite vanish and his senses magnify. He'd been away from direct action for over a decade, but his battle instincts were swiftly emerging from hibernation.

He caught Lestrade staring at him. "Have I got something on my face?"

"Actually, yes. You've got a look that I've only ever seen Sherlock wear."

"Oh?"

Lestrade nodded. "It usually appears only when he's getting ready to become someone's worst nightmare."

Mycroft smiled tightly. "Must run in the family."

The head nurse on duty in the Psychiatric Unit initially denied them admittance, insisting that visiting hours were over. Before Mycroft could threaten her with something worse than just a sacking, Lestrade flashed his badge.

"This is a police matter, and won't take long. Let Mr. Holmes see his brother and we'll leave."

_Yes, we will, but only long enough for me to call my assistant and have guards assigned to this floor. _

"I'm sure Dr. Stamford won't mind, but if it would set your mind at ease, please call him," John said kindly. On the surface he appeared calm, but his rapid blinking and quick movements betrayed his own eagerness to see Sherlock.

"If you want to stay longer than fifteen minutes, gentlemen, I might have to," the woman responded. "This way."

Mycroft noted with relief that Sherlock's room was within sight and shouting distance of the nurses' station. Then he saw the still form on the bed and a surge of emotion choked him.

Sherlock was prone on the mattress, his wrists and ankles bound to the bed rails with padded leather restraints. Another strap extended across his chest. He wore a hospital gown that was several sizes too big for his narrow frame, and was so pale that his skin color almost matched the sheets.

"We started him on an IV because he's obviously malnourished," the nurse said.

John entered the room and leaned over him. "Has he regained consciousness yet?"

"Not yet."

Mycroft tensed. "Is that a cause for concern, John?"

"In his case, no. Mike said he was given the lowest recommended dose of Haldol, but your brother is so frail…. Christ, when did he last eat?"

"I've no idea. John, please understand… Sherlock and I haven't had the most amicable of associations."

Watson nodded as he adjusted Sherlock's blanket. "I do understand. My sister and I don't speak much either."

"Well, he's obviously all right, and I can post a couple of men at the door if you think he's at risk," Lestrade said gently. "I don't mean to be insensitive, Mycroft, but I am going to need a statement."

"Yes, of course." Mycroft leaned toward the bed and clasped his brother's hand. "Sherlock, you probably can't hear me, but I swear I'll never let him near-"

And then the lights went out.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft threw himself across his brother, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and waist. The move aggravated his stitches and he gasped, but remained in place until the lights came on a few seconds later.

John touched his shoulder. "It's all right. This happens occasionally, and all hospitals have emergency generators. Not exactly a place where you want to lose power for long."

Mycroft slowly slid off the bed and stood. He was examining his bandages for blood spots, concerned that the stitches might have torn, when Sherlock stirred and groaned.

"Where'm I? Head hurts…."

"You're at Bart's, Sherlock," Mycroft said carefully.

Unfocused eyes turned toward him. "Mycroft?"

"Yes."

Sherlock blinked and took several deep breaths. He licked his dry lips and tried to sit up. When the restraints stopped him, he blinked in confusion, then annoyance. "What…."

John came around to the other side of the bed. "It's all fine, Sherlock. These are just to keep you in bed until you're feeling better."

The younger Holmes calmed at the doctor's presence. "I'm better now. Please take them off."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. Had Sherlock already deleted the evening's events? No, he couldn't have, not entirely- he didn't seem too surprised to find himself in restraints. The elder Holmes surveyed his brother for submerged anxiety or tension, but only detected annoyance. Perhaps the drug-induced sleep had calmed him somewhat, but Mycroft didn't trust him. Sherlock's primary goal right now would be to get out of the hospital, and if he had to put on a serene face until he could find another unattended window, he would do it.

"No, Sherlock." John touched his arm. "I'm afraid they have to stay on until you've been evaluated. Standard procedure."

"When will that be?"

"In the morning, most likely."

"What time is it?

"Just gone one."

"Technically, it's morning then." He turned his head and regarded his brother with barely-veiled hostility. "Do something useful for once. Call whoever you need to call to have me released."

Lestrade approached. "Don't be stroppy with him, Sherlock. You're not going anywhere for at least seventy-two hours."

"Why?"

"You jumped out of the window at Baker Street, for starters."

"Momentary lapse in judgement."

"Pretty damned serious one too. Now lay back and rest."

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Don't bloody tell me to rest! I've had quite enough sleep!" He glared at Mycroft. "Now get me out of here."

"No."

"I'm FINE."

"No, you're not."

"You know I'll figure a way out myself," the younger man warned.

Mycroft had had enough. "Not if I advise the staff on how to contain you. I know all your tricks."

"You meddling fucking-" Sherlock lunged as far as the restraints would allow. Then, abruptly, he stopped. His eyes darted quickly over his older brother, taking in the ruined trousers, open hospital gown, and bandages. His furious scowl relaxed into an intrigued frown.

"You were kidnapped tonight," he said.

"Yes."

"And transported in a truck- no, an ambulance."

John's jaw dropped. Lestrade gave a knowing smile.

"You were drugged," Sherlock went on. "You reek of ether."

"Yes- unpleasant stuff."

John's eyes widened. "I don't smell anything."

Sherlock gave him the tolerant smile a parent would bestow on a slow child. "It's all right, John, not everyone is perceptive. I can tell from looking at my brother that he was drugged within the last few hours, restrained in a straightjacket- notice how stiff his shoulders are from popping them- and he escaped into the street. See his shoes? Dried salt."

John looked down and nodded, amazed. "That's incredible!"

Sherlock beamed. "You think so?"

"Absolutely."

"That's not what people normally say."

"No? What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed. Sherlock grinned, his earlier anger dissolved by the admiration and attention.

Mycroft quietly decided that the tenant in 221c Baker Street would have to interview another potential flatmate. John Watson's calming effect on his wild younger brother was astounding. With a companion- or better yet, friend- capable of keeping him steady, Sherlock could be more than a brilliant mind chained by destructive impulses. _John Watson could be the making of my brother._

"Gregory," he said, "I'll make my statement now."

"Okay, but let me call another officer up first." He took out his mobile and dialled. "Dimmock? Fourth floor, room 412. Mr. Holmes is going to make a statement."

John sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed. Mycroft flashed him a look of gratitude: Sherlock was about to learn that the man he'd loved enough to die for was dead, _murdered_, and he awaited the reaction with dread.

When Dimmock arrived, Mycroft sat in the bedside chair and told his story. He admitted to following the dead man, but left out John and Lestrade's involvement and said that he'd merely intended to berate Trevor about the incident in the waiting room.

Sherlock wasn't fooled. He remained silent while Dimmock took notes, but his arched eyebrows and cold stare warned Mycroft that he _knew_.

When Mycroft recounted his kidnapping and return to consciousness in the utility room, Sherlock relaxed enough to grin. He threw John a sideways glance, as if to say, _I had it right, but then again, don't I always?_

Then Mycroft described the confrontation with James Moriarty, and the murder of Victor Trevor. Sherlock remained eerily calm, a tightening of his lips the only sign that he'd heard and understood everything.

"Any sign of Moriarty in the hospital?" Lestrade asked his colleague.

"No. We checked the IT department, and there's no James Moriarty employed there. There is a technician named James McAllister, and he's gone off shift suddenly, so I'm going to presume that's our man. Now this other party- Molly Hooper? I'm going to send someone to interview her. She may know where to find him."

"I doubt it, but it won't hurt to ask," said Mycroft, still eying his brother. "What about those fraudulent ambulance technicians? Did you apprehend them?"

Dimmock shook his head. "Sergeant Donovan shot one of them in the arm, but you fell against me and we both went down. They escaped on foot."

Sherlock suddenly broke his silence.

"James Moriarty killed Victor," he said slowly.

"Yes," said Mycroft.

"And Moriarty was his new boyfriend."

"It seems that way, yes," the elder Holmes said gently.

"I see."

Sherlock laid back against the pillows and closed his eyes. His limbs relaxed and what little color his face had summoned during his earlier rage drained away.

"Sherlock?" John touched his shoulder.

The younger Holmes smiled weakly at his voice. "Goodbye, John," he whispered. "I have no proof you'll be any different."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, but the only response his brother gave was a sudden exhale.

Then there was only a deathlike stillness.


	12. Chapter 12

Dr. Stamford examined the younger Holmes and concluded that Sherlock was in a catatonic state.

"He's exhibiting the classic symptoms," John shook his head. "Muscular rigidity, trancelike state of consciousness. In his case, it's a reaction to shock. Christ, hasn't the poor sod been through enough tonight?"

"He's not the only one, John." Lestrade glanced at Mycroft, who gazed numbly down at his brother. "I'm going to post some officers at his doorway and throughout the ward. Then I think the three of us should leave and come back after we've had some rest. There's nothing more we can do here."

"You're right, Inspector." Stamford pocketed his penlight and regarded them sympathetically. "I'm hopeful that he won't remain like this for long. From what I've seen of him, Sherlock has difficulty properly expressing emotions. He can't cry unless he's in hysterics, so this is essentially how he's mourning Dr. Trevor. I've seen this happen before, with other emotionally disconnected patients."

"Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said, eyes still riveted on his brother's vacant face. "You have my mobile number- I wish to be notified immediately if there's any change, no matter how minor."

"You have my word, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft reluctantly buttoned up his new overcoat. He had borrowed John's mobile to call the agency PA assigned to him during Anthea's holiday absence, and directed her to send him a change of clothes as well as a Blackberry, identification package, credit cards, and cash to replace those taken from him when he was kidnapped. "Have a team sweep my residence for any hostile intrusions," he also ordered. "Furthermore, I want 24-hour personal and video surveillance on my brother at St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

Mycroft didn't want to leave Sherlock, but the night's events had driven him to the limits of his endurance. He did not protest when Lestrade guided him out into the hall and said, "If you two don't have Christmas Day plans, you're welcome to come to my flat. I'm divorced and I've got no extended family in London. Company would actually be nice."

John looked grateful. "That's kind of you, Greg. I was just going to go back to my bedsit and microwave something."

"No family either?"

"A sister. But we don't get on."

Mycroft said, "Perhaps you both would like to come to my townhouse instead. There are spare bedrooms and my cook can make extra plates for Christmas breakfast and dinner."

"Are you having other guests over?" John asked. "I'd hate to put extra work on your staff."

"No, I was orginally going to be alone. But it's all right." He paused. "Neither Sherlock nor I have ever done the holiday dinner routine. I invited him to dine with me at my club last night, but he never responded, and I didn't really expect him to. Our family has never been what you would call sentimental."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock always reminded me of a cat. Admire and flatter him all you want, but get too touchy-feely and he'd scratch your fucking face off. Except for Victor Trevor. But seeing how that turned out, Christ knows that he might have been better off being anti-social."

"I'm afraid you're right, Gregory. Sherlock has no concept of halfway measures. It's all or nothing. And Victor Trevor was everything, however unworthy."

"And you?"

Mycroft stared at Lestrade. "What about me?"

"Is it all or nothing with you too?"

Mycroft's heartbeat quickened. _He's so handsome, he cares about Sherlock…._

"Why are you asking?"

Lestrade looked serious, but Mycroft caught of flash of something mischievous, even playful, in his eyes. "You've invited me to yours. Do I have to worry about being scratched if I touch your hand while passing the salt?"

Mycroft's lips twitched in amusement and something else. "No. My self-control is somewhat better."

"Where do you live?" John asked.

"Knightsbridge." When he named the address, the doctor whistled.

"Isn't that the street where you need to be in evening dress just to walk on the pavement?"

The elder Holmes grinned despite his growing physical and emotional fatigue. "You'll be fine with me."

"Let's go now then." Lestrade glanced back into Sherlock's room. "We'll be notified if there's any change in his condition." To Mycroft, he added, "He'll be well-protected."

"I know." Mycroft had already seen the beautiful Japanese woman –one of his office's deadliest bodyguards- pushing a linen cart down the corridor, eying the uniformed constables with faint disdain. "Fine. Let's go."

As he approached the lift, he signalled to two young men in orderly uniforms, who were chatting up the giggling nurses at the station. They nodded back, and one took a mobile out of his pocket to alert his colleagues that the boss was on his way down.

"They work for me," he explained once the lift doors closed.

"I figured as such, when I heard them tell the nurse they were temporary workers," Lestrade replied. "Sherlock said once that you were the British government. I thought he was exaggerating or being sarcastic, but now I'm beginning to wonder. Let me guess- British Secret Service? CIA liaison?"

"I'm many things to many people, Gregory."

_And what am I to you, I wonder?_

* * *

><p>Mycroft was surprised at how much he enjoyed having John and Gregory join him for breakfast. The three-course meal, which included orange juice and champagne, was delicious, but the conversation and companionship were the real treats. He wasn't used to dining with anyone who wasn't family or a professional contact. It felt strange not having to come across as stern and disapproving (as he often did with Sherlock) or coolly polite and dignified, as his position required during official functions. He was even able to forget Sherlock and Moriarty for milliseconds at a time.<p>

Although he ate heartily, John Watson only accepted a single glass of champagne, and sipped at it intermittently. _Not an alcoholic himself, but someone close to him is, or was, _Mycroft mused. John told them about being wounded in Afghanistan and having a difficult time finding a place to live in London on an army pension.

"That's why I went to Baker Street tonight," he explained. "I knew I could only afford to live in the city if I got a flatmate."

"I'm glad you did, John," Mycroft said. "You've been wonderful, especially to Sherlock. When he's discharged from the hospital and this Moriarty situation is under control, I'd consider it a great favor if you would share 221b with him. He should not be alone, and I can tell he's comfortable around you."

"I've known your brother less than 24 hours, but it seems like so much longer. I can't explain it. I just-" John's hands waved as he sought the right words "-feel like I've known him my whole life. I can tell that he's a good man, just lost his way. I can relate."

Mycroft set his champagne flute down. "When Sherlock said he had no proof you'd be any different than Victor had been, please understand that-"

"Mycroft, it's all fine. He was upset. And in answer to your question, yes. I'd be happy to live with Sherlock. I think it would be good for both of us. He shouldn't be alone and neither should I, probably. My therapist wants me to keep a blog, but I think an interesting flatmate will be more beneficial."

"I'll ensure that you get a job that pays very well."

"You don't have to."

Lestrade, who'd tucked into the meal with relish, loosened his belt and leaned back in the chair. "Do you like children, John?"

"Yes, a lot. Why?"

"Sherlock Holmes is a great man, but he's also very much a child." The DI's dark eyes flashed to Mycroft. Detecting no resentment at his words, he continued. "Living with him will be a challenge. But I think you prefer that."

"I guess I must," John said. "One night around him and I no longer need a cane. Sherlock was right- I never really needed one in the first place. My shoulder was wounded, not my leg. But the pain there felt real enough."

"The mind can be our best friend or worst enemy." Mycroft poured another glass of champagne for himself and Lestrade. Seeing that the bottle was now empty, he rose to get another from a side table. He had, however, imbibed more than usual during dinner, and the liquor, combined with the toll taken on his stamina by the night's events, left him dizzy.

John saw him swaying. "Hey- are you all right?"

_Am I? Sherlock's in the hospital, James Moriarty is out there, and I have more undercover security outside my house than one sees at a Royal Wedding. I'm also about to fall over._

But to John, he said briskly, "Yes, I'm fine." Reaching for a bottle of Dom Perignon, he lost his balance and fell to his knees. The movement aggravated the stitches on his still-sore chest wound. "Ow- fuck!"

The maid, who was clearing the table, nearly dropped the butter dish. "Sorry, sir," she said as she hastily reclaimed it. "Never heard you speak so."

"No, Karen, it's quite all right." Mycroft tried to rise, but the room spun and he went down again.

"Here, let me." Lestrade came around the table, pulled him upright, and flung one of Mycroft's arms around his shoulders. "Lean on me, all right?"

"This is embarrassing."

Lestrade lowered him carefully into his chair. "If you piss yourself, it'll be embarrassing. This is nothing. You're just done in."

"I believe you're right."

Mycroft's mobile went off in his pocket, signalling an incoming text. He took it out and scanned the message: the guards at the hospital were dutifully reporting Sherlock's progress, however slight.

_SH finally closed his eyes and seems to be sleeping, sir. Looks a little better. Respectfully, P._

When he read it to the others, John said, "That's a good sign. He's resting now."

Another message came, this one from the fill-in PA.

_Assembling profile on James Moriarty. Estimated completion time is one hour. Will send when ready. G._

"I should go back to the hospital." Mycroft tried to stand again. Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder and John stood.

"No. You're going to sleep. We all need to." When Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, Lestrade added, "For a few hours. All right? Just a short lie-down. We won't do ourselves or Sherlock any good if we're done in."

"He's right." John rubbed his forehead. "We should all rest. I know I could use it."

"Yes, yes, fine." The elder Holmes couldn't dispute that he was exhausted. He'd rest for an hour, and then check his e-mail for the Moriarty dossier. "Let me show you both upstairs."

"I'm going to help you." Lestrade took one arm and manoeuvred him around the table, toward the corridor. "No way are you taking those stairs on your own."

"I'll get the fire ready in your room, sir." Another maid hurried ahead of them.

"Do the same in guest rooms across from mine, Anna. Dr. Watson and Mr. Lestrade are staying."

"Yes, sir."

They took the spiralling staircase slowly, Mycroft swearing the more he stumbled. John laughed out loud and Lestrade tightened his hold. "You _really_ need a lie-down."

Mycroft maintained an efficient staff. When they stopped in the doorway of the room designated as John's, the fire in the small hearth was crackling cheerily. The army doctor stepped cautiously over the threshold and stared about.

"My God- I'm afraid to even touch anything in here."

"Don't be silly, John. There's a robe and laundry bag in the closet. Just leave your clothes outside your door. They'll be laundered while you rest."

"What is this, a house or a five-star hotel?"

Mycroft laughed, and then grimaced as the room spun. "Whatever you want it to be. There's even an adult channel on the satellite."

"Really? Nice!" John's stare flew to the plasma TV. "See you both later, then."

When his door closed, Gregory said, "Which one's yours?"

"This one." Mycroft jerked his chin over his shoulder. "I can take it from here, really. You can let me-"

When he turned back, Lestrade's lips were crushed against his own.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **This chapter is dedicated to **chasingriver**, **IBegtoDreamandDiffer_, _**and everyone else who agrees that Mycroft and Greg belong together.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's body reacted before his mind could process anything. When Lestrade gently but persistently backed him against the door frame and slid his tongue between Mycroft's parted lips, the elder Holmes moaned and raised his hands to the DI's chest. Beneath the plain cotton shirt, Lestrade's skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish.<p>

"Sorry for helping myself here, but you're incredible," the older man panted into his mouth. "You've got such a heart, and you're not hard on the eyes either."

"Gregory, I-" Mycroft debated whether he should tell him. Lestrade was a far cry from men like Victor Trevor, and God, perhaps it was finally time. But what if-

Lestrade hesitated. "You what? You don't want to?"

"No. I do." Mycroft swallowed and said it again, this time in firmer tones. "I do."

Then they were kissing again, and Mycroft's tongue explored Lestrade's mouth, tasting champagne and scones and coffee. They leaned in the bedroom doorway, running their hands all over each other. Inhibitions dulled by alcohol, Mycroft acted on instinct, drawn to Lestrade's broad shoulders and biceps. He squeezed them, relishing their firmness, while Gregory reached down to his arse. When he felt strong, blunt fingers dig into his tight buttocks, he shuddered.

"Please," he breathed.

Lestrade shut the door and guided him into the palatial bedroom, ignoring the inch-deep carpet, luxurious furnishings and wall-sized plasma TV in favour of the king-sized four-poster bed. It was over two hundred years old; sometimes, when unable to sleep, Mycroft would lie there thinking about the dozens, maybe hundreds of lovers, who had known pleasure there over the years. These thoughts inevitably aroused him until he brought himself off, but a haunting loneliness always followed the physical relief. Much as he wanted to, he'd never felt safe enough with anyone to bring them home like this. Someone in his position, with the number of enemies he'd acquired over the years, could never be _sure. _

With Gregory Lestrade, he was. He didn't know exactly why, but his instincts rarely failed him, and right now they urged him to relax, to let go and be taken. He was safe.

They were at the bed now. Lestrade broke their kiss to gently push him onto his back on the mattress. "Let's get you out of these clothes," he murmured, pushing the eight-hundred pound suit jacket off Mycroft's shoulders. The waistcoat was next, followed by the silk shirt. As he undid the mother-of-pearl buttons and gradually exposed Mycroft's bandaged chest, he added, "Please tell me if I hurt you. I'll try not to, but God, you're beautiful."

When Mycroft was naked from the waist up, Lestrade tackled his belt. The elder Holmes raised himself onto his elbows and stared at the enormous bulge forming in the other man's tight trousers. He was hard too: his zipper struggled to contain his growing erection. He wanted Gregory Lestrade, and badly. But he could not suppress a series of shivers.

Lestrade noticed. "Mycroft?" He paused, fingers still on his partner's trouser fastenings. "Is something wrong?"

Mycroft lowered his head. "Gregory, I've never done this before."

"Been with a man, you mean?"

The elder Holmes looked at him. "Been with anyone."

Silence. Then Lestrade said, "Are you serious?"

"Quite." Mycroft kept his voice steady, but inside, panic stirred. What if Lestrade, for all his sterling qualities, did not want to be with someone inexperienced? Every complaint he'd ever heard in saunas, locker rooms, and bars about virgins being 'bad lays' came to mind with cruel clarity. "Gregory, I won't hold it against you if this changes things. I know it seems bizarre, a man my age not-"

"No, no, stop." Lestrade grabbed his hand and sat on the bed. "It's fine. I was just surprised. Can… can I ask why? You're good-looking, you're obviously intelligent and accomplished, I figured you'd have to beat admirers off with one of those umbrellas I saw in your foyer."

Mycroft scrutinized him, and once again detected only sincerity. "When I was younger- in uni- I wasn't exactly part of the human race. Not dissimilar to the way Sherlock is now. I was obsessed with my studies. Then, after I graduated, I went into the public service. My superiors quickly appreciated that I was… unique… and involved me in projects and departments involving high levels of secrecy and security. I could never be sure that anyone approaching me wasn't a potential threat. It's actually still the case. But with you, it's different. I know I can trust you."

"Holy Christ." Lestrade shook his head. "You're even more exceptional than I thought."

Mycroft's face burned. Intrigued, he touched one cheek and marvelled at the warm skin. Was he blushing?

"I won't bore you, Gregory," he blurted. "Theoretically I know what to do in bed-"

"Shut up," Lestrade said gently. He cupped the back of Mycroft's head in his warm palm and brought their lips together again. With his other hand, he caressed the younger man's erection through the fine wool trousers. "I want you," he whispered. "God, you're so hard and wet. I have to see you."

He unzipped Mycroft's trousers and pulled them down, along with the silk boxers. Mycroft got a glimpse of his own leaking, bobbing erection before his still-sore chest muscles forced him to lie flat. A slick tongue pressing against the crown of his penis made him whimper, but when it swirled a few times before drawing him into a warm, wet mouth he shuddered and moaned.

"Oh, my God."

Lestrade swallowed him down to the root while cupping and fondling his balls. Mycroft felt overwhelmed: the sensations coursing through his body were so intense that he couldn't think. His massive intellect was being forced into the shadows, yielding the stage to physical pleasure that he'd only understood theoretically until now.

Gregory continued to suck him, but now a finger danced against his opening, which tightened in response. Mycroft heard Gregory groan around his erection before pulling off of it with a wet pop and sliding into a kneeling position on the floor. "Need to taste more of you," the DI said breathlessly. Mycroft felt strong hands grasp his hips and pull them forward until his arse was at the edge of the mattress.

He expected Gregory to go for his cock again, and nearly vaulted off the bed when his knees were pressed carefully toward his chest and a hot, wet tongue poked at his opening. "Gregory, what are you- _OHHH._" Further coherent speech was rendered impossible when Lestrade stiffened his tongue and pushed it into his body.

Mycroft clutched the duvet and bit his lip to keep from screaming. Screaming was like a fire alarm in his household- it brought armed guards on the run. But that fucking tongue was squirming inside him, loosening the muscle and causing his cock to stream pre-come all over his quivering belly. He pushed his hips toward that talented mouth, wordlessly pleading for more.

He grabbed for his cock and stroked it, relishing the wetness that lingered from the blowjob. The dual stimulation made him thrash his head back and forth on the mattress, unable to focus on anything except the coiling tightness in his belly that always signalled an approaching climax. Feeling his balls harden and draw up, he reached down with his other hand and grabbed Lestrade's hair, trying to force his tongue to go just a bit deeper...

"Ah, ah." Lestrade pulled back. "Can't have you finishing yet."

Mycroft raised his head, surprised. He still throbbed with need, but worried about coming across as greedy. "Of course. It's your turn." He scooted further up on the mattress and waited. "Get undressed and I'll-"

"No, no." Lestrade stood and leaned over him, careful not to apply his weight to the chest wound. "There's just more I want to do to you, if you'll let me."

"More?" Mycroft laughed throatily. "God, I was about to BEG you for it."

Lestrade leaned in and brushed their lips together. "I want to fuck you."

Mycroft grabbed his face and pulled him into a fierce, needy kiss. "And I want you to," he whispered. When their lips parted, he reached under one of the pillows and pulled out the tube of lubricant he used when pleasuring himself. When Lestrade's brows rose, he chuckled, "I'm always prepared."

Gregory smiled and took it. "Apparently." He paused, and regarded the elder Holmes with affection as well as lust. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." And he meant it.

"Lie back. Close your eyes. Relax."

Mycroft did. He heard the tube cap click open, and then shut. When a slick, wet finger began circling his entrance, he caught his breath.

"Are you all right?"

He nodded, certain that he was. He'd never felt so vulnerable in his life, but desire for and trust in Lestrade allayed any anxiety. Logically, his feelings didn't make sense: he'd known the other man less than twenty-four hours. But everything was right somehow.

When the lubricated finger breached him gently, Mycroft stirred. "Easy," Lestrade whispered before sliding one hand behind his head and kissing him again. The distraction of their duelling tongues let him relax enough to take a second finger. The stretch of his sensitive muscles wasn't painful, but when Gregory began to carefully slide the slick digits in and out, the sensation was so intense that he shuddered and caught his breath.

Lestrade stopped. "Okay?"

"Yes. Just... oh."

"Intense, huh?"

"God, yes. Please don't stop."

When Mycroft's hips freely pushed against his rocking hand, Lestrade introduced a third finger. This time he stroked Mycroft's prostate with each forward motion, sending bursts of pleasure shooting throughout his body. The elder Holmes felt his cock press urgently against his belly, its hardness a balance between pain and ecstasy.

After a few more minutes of finger-fucking and deep kissing, Gregory sat up and stripped off his shirt. He undid and tossed aside his belt, then pulled his trousers and underwear down and off. Now completely naked, he knelt between Mycroft's legs. "Ready?" he asked breathlessly.

Mycroft stared at the other man's body, mouth going dry at the sleek muscles and smattering of scars that hinted at a dangerous past."Yes. Gregory... please fuck me now."

Mycroft watched as Lestrade uncapped the lube one more time and applied a generous amount to his cock, which was as long and thick as the bulge it had created implied. Then Gregory was shuffling forward. He positioned his slick cockhead at Mycroft's entrance. "Deep breath," he instructed softly.

The elder Holmes raised his legs and locked them around his lover's waist, urging him closer. When he felt the blunt, slippery tip push past his tight ring of muscle, Mycroft exhaled loudly and dug his nails into Lestrade's back. The penetration didn't hurt, but he felt full, hot, and sweetly violated. When his body clenched down automatically around Lestrade's cock, the DI paused, letting him adjust. "You're incredible," he whispered before bringing his lips to Mycroft's neck and sucking gently on the pulse point.

Mycroft sighed and relaxed, letting Gregory sink into him the rest of the way.

They laid together like that for several minutes, sweating and processing their feelings, both physical and emotional. Then Lestrade pulled out slightly and pushed back in. The drag across his now-swollen prostate made Mycroft sob in ecstasy.

"God, God..."

Encouraged, Lestrade thrust a little more forcefully. They both groaned as pleasure shot up their spines. Gregory pressed his face against Mycroft's neck and increased the speed of his fucking. Mycroft held on tight, dragging his nails along his lover's shoulders and crossing his ankles in the curve of Lestrade's undulating back. The air in the bedroom grew thick with their moans, grunts, and ecstatic curses. When Mycroft dropped his sweating palms to Gregory's arse cheeks and shoved, trying to force deeper penetration, the DI cried out and convulsed. A split second later, Mycroft felt warmth flood his insides, and that was all he needed to come so forcefully that his ejaculate splattered over both their chests.

Mycroft was still trying to catch his breath when Lestrade pulled slowly out of him and kissed his brow. "You okay?"

"More than okay." Mycroft touched his cheek. "That was... I can't describe it. And I've never been at a loss for words before."

"I feel the same. In fact, I think I-"

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was John.

"Mycroft? Are you in there?"

"Yes," Mycroft called back, rising onto his elbows.

"The hospital's been trying to reach you, so Mike Stamford just called me. It's Sherlock. We need to go back right away."


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft slid off the bed and sprang to his feet. "What's happened?"

"He's done a runner."

"He _escaped_?"

"That's what Mike says."

"Let me get dressed, John. I'll be right out."

"I'll wake up Greg. What room is he in?"

"This one!" Lestrade called back, picking up his pants and trousers. "We'll join you in a minute."

Outside, John said slowly, "Oh, err, all right. I'll wait out here then."

Despite his worry, Mycroft flushed. Lestrade gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze."I'm sure he suspected anyway."

"I'll take your word for it." The elder Holmes reached for his shirt. "Come on, we must hurry."

"Wait." Gregory fetched two damp towels from the adjacent bathroom and used one to wipe himself off. "Here," he said, holding out the other. "That was amazing, but we're a bit of a mess."

"Oh. Yes. Thank you." Mycroft wiped his face and chest before scrubbing his own release off his stomach. His nerves still hummed with the post-coital aftershocks, and he ached for Lestrade to hold him until they subsided. The accompanying emotions defied logic or rationalization, which were Mycroft's traditional weapons when it came to new experiences, leaving him unsure how to properly process them.

_I've been so parched emotionally. I want more, NEED more._

_Later. Focus._

"Sherlock Holmes has the fucking shittiest timing," Lestrade grumbled as he hurried into his clothes. When Mycroft wobbled while donning his trousers, he added, "Are you okay? You were a bit tipsy earlier."

"I'm fine." He was, physically anyway: the adrenaline from their romp had chased away the alcoholic daze. "But I AM livid. How could my brother escape from a secure psychiatric ward when my best security detail was surrounding him?"

"You could do it, couldn't you?"

Mycroft smiled despite his anxiety. "Probably."

Lestrade took him by the arms. "Listen. We're going to find him, and then slap the bugger silly. What was he thinking? Moriarty is after you, and that makes him a potential target too. Doesn't he understand that he's safer at Bart's, under heavy guard?"

"He understands, and doesn't care. If anything, it's an added incentive to escape."

Lestrade's eyes widened suddenly. "You don't think he'll attempt suicide again?"

Mycroft's response was swift and sure. "No, he won't."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. He may still be grieving, but he's no longer bored."

"Christ. Puts a new slant on the term 'dying of boredom', doesn't it?" Gregory shook his head. Then he pulled Mycroft into a hug, adjusting his hold to avoid putting pressure on the stitches. "Before we head out, I want to thank you for giving me, well, you know."

Mycroft closed his eyes and melted into the embrace. "No, thank _you_."

When they joined John out in the hall, the doctor was pacing rapidly back and forth. "What the hell is your brother's middle name, Houdini?" he demanded, waving his arms.

"No, but it obviously should be." Mycroft hurried for the stairs. "Tell me exactly what Dr. Stamford told you."

"There was a fire alarm at Bart's, on the floor above the psychiatric ward-"

"Was there actually a fire though?" Lestrade demanded.

"I don't know. Mike didn't say. Anyway, Sherlock was unstrapped so they could move him onto a gurney in case evacuation became necessary. Before they could secure him to it, he opened his eyes, shoved the staff aside, and ran. That's all I know. Your people will probably be able to tell you more, Mycroft."

"If they want to keep their jobs, they'd better."

He knew he was partly to blame. There had been times in the past when Sherlock was injured while resisting the people Mycroft had sent to bring him somewhere. Even if the younger Holmes had brought it on himself, Mycroft invariably disciplined the employees involved. Like the time Sherlock's knee was cut when he tried to jump from the government car conveying him to a meeting he wanted to avoid: the bodyguard involved was still at the agency's Siberian outpost. There was also the female chauffeur who'd unintentionally closed the car door on those long white fingers during another struggle: she suffered a pay cut. Given those and similar examples, Mycroft acknowledged that his people would sooner defend Sherlock from an army of assassins than lay restraining hands on the man himself.

During the ride to Bart's, Lestrade held Mycroft's hand as he stared out at early morning London. "Any idea where he could be?"

"Mrs. Hudson would let me know if he went back to 221b, so he's definitely not there. The hospital security cameras should enlighten us, hopefully."

John, who sat up front with the silent chauffeur, said, "Never a dull moment with your brother, is there?"

"No." _And that intrigues you, I can tell. _John looked appropriately concerned, but his fixed, alert stare and rigid posture betrayed his excitement. The repatriated soldier was back at the battlefield, and finding purpose again.

Using his other hand, Mycroft texted Genna, his interim PA.

_Review Bart's security footage for indications as to where SH may have gone. Report immediately. MH_

She responded promptly.

_Yes, sir. Have you reviewed J. Moriarty file yet? Awaiting your instructions._

Mycroft frowned. What file? He scrolled through his received texts, and found an unread message with a large attachment. It had arrived while he and Gregory were rolling around on his bed, moaning and sweating….

Shaking his head to clear it, he opened the message.

"We're almost there," Lestrade commented. Seeing Mycroft absorbed in his phone, he asked, "Any news from your people?"

"Not about Sherlock."

He eagerly scanned the downloaded profile. James Moriarty, aged thirty-five, born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Father (deceased) had known ties with the IRA. American-born mother currently serving a life sentence in Holloway prison for murdering her husband. James himself had no known record, and was only on file as the child of confirmed criminals.

Mycroft frowned. How was that possible? The man was obviously a brilliant, experienced killer with influential connections. But according to Genna's report, the man had never even gotten a speeding ticket.

_He started young. Stayed off the record by getting others to do his dirty work while he directed, praised, and punished._

_Like I did._

"We're here," John said.

When the Audi pulled up in front of the A&E entrance, Mycroft leaped out and strode into the building with John and Gregory close behind. While they waited for the lift, he heard the sound of an incoming text and checked his phone again.

It was Genna. _Sir, hospital security cameras were offline for 20 minutes. SH disappeared during that time. _

"Goddamn it," he muttered.

"What is it?" John asked.

"I've been thwarted by my own methods, it seems. The hospital surveillance system was down during the time frame when Sherlock escaped."

"Down?" Lestrade echoed. "A malfunction?"

"I don't know yet," Mycroft answered. But on a certain level, he did. Only too well. The fire alarm, the camera glitch… they were signposts that pointed to one logical conclusion.

It had all been staged.

The lift doors swished open. As they stepped inside, Mycroft received another text. He glanced down, expecting more intel from Genna, but received a shock instead.

_Mycroft. So rude of you to refuse my hospitality. I was so disappointed, but your little brother will make it up to me, I'm sure. JM_

Mycroft's fingers shook minutely as he downloaded and opened the photo attachment.

It was a picture of Sherlock in his rumpled hospital gown, lying on the backseat of a car. His eyes were closed but he bore no signs of rough handling.

_What do you want? _Mycroft texted back.

"Mycroft?" John's eyes narrowed. "You're white as a bloody sheet. What is it?"

"One moment, John. Please."

Moriarty's reply came swiftly. _You, darling. Shall we dance?_

The lift door opened onto the psychiatric floor. People, uniformed police officers among them, milled around, looking bewildered. Mycroft's people, seeing their boss, cringed and lowered their eyes.

Mycroft paid no attention to them. His fingers flew over the phone's keypad.

_When and where? MH_

"Mycroft," Lestrade frowned, "you've gotten news about Sherlock, haven't you?"

"Yes." He decided to show them the message and photo. There was no way he could keep either of them in the dark. But first…

Moriarty's response chimed.

_I'll be in touch. JM_

Mycroft's fingers tapped fiercely on the keys. _If you hurt him, you'll burn._

His employees were approaching cautiously, alarmed at his agitation. He gestured for them to stay back and told Lestrade and John, "It's Moriarty. Sherlock may have escaped on his own, but Moriarty has him now."

"What?" John paled. "How do you know?"

Moriarty's reply arrived.

_Don't be dramatic. At least, not until we meet again. Later! JM_

It had finally happened: the one thing Mycroft truly feared. Sherlock had become a pawn in a power struggle between himself and a dangerous individual who would probably make him choose between his brother and national security.

He showed John and Lestrade the original text and its alarming attachment. John gasped, "Holy fucking hell" and Lestrade ordered gently, "Mycroft, please forward that to my phone. I'll get my best people on it."

"So will I, Gregory."

Mycroft forwarded the message, and then sent a new one, to Genna.

_Moriarty has SH. Forwarding details to you. Analyze thoroughly._ He paused, and then added more. _Leverage will be necessary. Locate home address of hospital employee Molly Hooper, pathology department. Detain until further notice._

He hated himself right now. Molly was guilty of nothing more than being young and naive and important somehow to Moriarty. But that latter attribute drew her into the web now.

_Yes, sir_, Genna responded seconds later. _Will we have to neutralize this Molly Hooper?_

Refusing to look at Lestrade, Mycroft replied.

_It may be necessary. Yes._


	15. Chapter 15

It only took twenty minutes for Mycroft's agents to locate Molly at home and retrieve her. When Genna texted confirmation of the young woman's arrival at the containment centre, the elder Holmes quashed a surging sense of guilt.

_Treat her well until you hear differently from me_, he ordered. _And send me a neutral photo._

'Neutral' meant that the picture would only show a bewildered and frightened Molly Hooper, without any background objects that could identify the centre's location. While he waited for it, Mycroft finished interrogating his employees- the ones who'd failed to prevent Sherlock's escape from the hospital. He never raised his voice, but even the most stoic of them was shaking afterward.

"Mycroft," Lestrade said after seeing the final interviewee slink away, "you should let us take you home. The moment there's any news, your people or mine will call."

Mycroft was about to reply when the text bearing Molly's photo arrived. Manoeuvring to keep the phone's screen from anyone else's view, he downloaded the image.

She was sitting on a folding metal chair against a sterile white backdrop, eying the photographer apprehensively. The team had probably told her that she was wanted for questioning in a matter relevant to national security. That tactic usually worked well for civilians, unless they had reason to fear government attention.

"One moment," Mycroft told Lestrade and John. "I have to text my assistant."

_We need to discuss terms, Mr. Moriarty. You're not the only one with a bargaining chip. MH_

He attached the image and sent it.

Mycroft knew he was taking a chance: Moriarty could regard Molly's abduction as provocation, fly into a rage, and harm Sherlock. Or, alternatively, the Irishman might sneer at the leveraging attempt and add her body to the final count or, worse, force Mycroft to do it. But his intuition, which rarely failed him, insisted that the young woman meant something to Moriarty in the emotional sense. He had to risk it.

Pocketing the phone, he followed Lestrade and John into the lift. As it descended, he glanced discreetly at the DI's grim profile and sighed inwardly. Gregory Lestrade had sworn an oath to prevent activities like the one that Mycroft had just authorized. Agreeing to give Victor Trevor a group kicking the night before was one thing, but kidnapping and forcible confinement was another, even if Sherlock's life was at stake. By necessity, Mycroft lived and operated outside the law, in a twilight world where morality was relative and situational ethics took precedence over legislated rules. Their respective obligations would leave them forever incompatible in that respect.

When the lift doors opened into the hospital lobby, Mycroft felt Lestrade's hand touch his lower back. In mere hours, the handsome DI had gotten closer to him than people he'd known for years. He'd relished their lovemaking and revelled in the joy of lowering his guard around someone at last. But Sherlock's abduction had confirmed a terrible reality: allowing someone into his life was as good as placing a target on their back. He and Gregory would need to have a difficult conversation after this was over.

His phone's text alert noise went off. Grateful for the interruption, Mycroft took it out and read the message.

_Meeting at midnight tonight. Will send location in one hour. Bring your package –undamaged- and I'll bring mine. No tricks now. Your parcel's not happy with its current wrapping, but that just makes it more entertaining. JM._

Mycroft gripped the phone at the not-so-subtle reference to Sherlock's current state. He typed a reply.

_No deal. Midnight too far away. You have one hour. MH._

"Mycroft?" John frowned. "What is it?"

"Moriarty is bargaining."

Lestrade spun sharply about and John exclaimed, "Is Sherlock all right?"

"He will be." The elder Holmes put the phone away. "Gentlemen, I'll be taking my leave shortly. To deal with this. You're both going to have to trust me."

"Mycroft." Lestrade glanced about. Satisfied that no one else was close enough to hear, he said, "I know your methods aren't the same as mine, but that doesn't matter here. I care about Sherlock too."

"I know you do. But as it stands, to bring Sherlock out of this safely, I have to abide by certain conditions." _Like kidnapping a civilian, which you could never condone._ "One of which is to avoid outside involvement."

"Outside involvement?" John echoed. "We're almost as involved as you are now."

_Please, John. Let it go._

"Almost is the key, John. Please don't make yourselves targets as well." He looked from one to the other. "I'll have my driver take you both back to the townhouse. I'll send for you when the time is right."

Lestrade shook his head. "Sorry, Mycroft, but that's a crock of shit. You'll send for us when it's over."

Mycroft smiled wearily. "Isn't that one and the same?"

"I don't like it," John said.

Before Mycroft could answer, Moriarty's reply arrived.

_Impatient, aren't we? Fine. See you here in one hour._ On the next line was a South London address. _I'm sure you won't come alone with your delivery, so thought you should know that a bomb has just been planted. If I don't personally deactivate it by a certain time- BOOM! Blue Christmas all around. JM_

Mycroft sent a terse acknowledgement before facing his two companions again. "I have to leave. One of my agents will escort you to my car."

Lestrade looked resigned. "Fine. We'll back off quietly under two conditions. One, you be damn careful. And two, you and Sherlock both return safely." He glanced at John, who nodded reluctantly.

"You have my word," Mycroft said. He wasn't fooled by their quick compliance: they'd return to Bart's at the first opportunity, talk to the patients and staff here in the lobby, and try to pick up his trail. Secure in the knowledge that their efforts would be fruitless, he signalled to one of his bodyguards, who'd been posing as a flu patient. The man hopped off his chair, listened to his orders, and obligingly led Lestrade and John outside. When they disappeared from view, the elder Holmes texted Genna.

_Send another car to pick me up at A&E entrance. Bring Miss Hooper to T4 drop-off point._

She replied in the affirmative, and five minutes later a town car pulled up outside. Mycroft settled onto the heated leather seat and gave the driver the drop-off site address. As the vehicle moved back onto the icy street, he opened one of the door compartments, extracted the automatic revolver (all his cars had hidden weapons installed), and slid it into his pocket.

Just in case.

* * *

><p>Genna and a silent bodyguard were already at the rendezvous point when he arrived. Molly Hooper reclined on the back seat of their idling vehicle, looking like a child who'd succumbed to fatigue after a long road trip. When the bodyguard scooped her up gently and conveyed her into Mycroft's car, she didn't even stir.<p>

"She's only had a couple of Valium, sir," Genna reported. "We gave them to her when she became hysterical- she thought we were investigating her for tax evasion. They knocked her right out."

"Just as well." Mycroft supported the unconscious young woman with his own body, holding her in place with one arm. "Thank you, Genna. Remain here and wait for further instructions."

"Yes, sir."

He gave his driver the South London address, and gazed grimly out the window as the journey resumed. Molly murmured something in her sleep that sounded vaguely like "Jim." He grimaced and tightened the grip on the weapon in his pocket, hoping Moriarty would not force him to use it on her.

_Stop thinking that way. Detach. If killing her will save Sherlock, you'll do it._

For the millionth time since power blessed him, Mycroft Holmes grimly acknowledged that caring was not an advantage.


	16. Chapter 16

As he carried his sleeping hostage carefully through the silent hulk that had once been a factory of some kind, Mycroft made a mental note to order surveillance cameras installed in isolated locations like this one. The worst plots and bloodiest tragedies were rarely committed within sight and sound of the public.

Wind moaned through the gaps in the brick walls, blowing freezing air and light snow into his face. Although she did not wake up, Molly whimpered at the cold and buried her face against his wool coat. The childlike noise and action unsettled him, but he refused to yield to incoming sentiment. He couldn't.

Moriarty had not texted him or appeared since he'd left his car and driver on the street outside and entered the building. The Kevlar vest under his coat offered a certain degree of protection against a sudden weapon-based attack, unless a lucky shot got him in the head. But he suspected that the Irishman was more interested in playing with him than killing him. Taking Sherlock had been a move calculated to bring them face to face once more.

He also reckoned that Moriarty didn't want to risk a stray bullet hitting Molly.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Balancing Molly carefully and wincing as his bullet wound burned in protest, Mycroft took it out and read the message.

_Report, Sir? Please advise. Genna_

Moving his gloved thumb awkwardly over the keys, he responded, _Nothing yet. I will be in touch every 15 minutes. If I fail to check in, respond accordingly. MH_

As he re-pocketed his phone, the elder Holmes heard footsteps. He froze and cocked his head to hear better. They were coming from the dark corridor ahead, and the gait was so slow and shuffling that Mycroft expected to see a bleary-eyed drunk emerge from the gloom.

Instead, it was Sherlock.

Followed by a beaming Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock wore only his hospital gown to protect him from the frigid temperatures. His bare feet, blue with cold, trudged through the snow that powdered the floor. He seemed dazed; his normally lively grey eyes were unfocused, and his movements were slow and tentative.

"Do go faster, Sherlock," Moriarty chided. "Your brother's anxious to see you."

Hearing his name, the younger Holmes stopped and looked over his shoulder. "What?" he mumbled.

"Oh, for crying out loud." The Irishman rolled his eyes and gave him a shove. "If I'd known you'd be this tedious when you woke up, I'd have knocked you out again and carried you. Just like your brother is doing with a dear friend of mine right now."

"Don't touch him again." Mycroft's voice was low and dangerous. He ached to rush over, pick Sherlock up, and wrap that shivering frame in his coat, but the game had to be played first.

"Yes, I suppose I'm being rather cruel. Look at him. Early stages of frostbite on his feet, last time I checked."

Mycroft quivered, but kept his face impassive and his voice steady. "Let him come over to me and you can have Miss Hooper."

Moriarty stared at her, and once again, Mycroft detected a minute softening in his demeanour. Then he shrugged in his trademark overblown style. "Deal. Go on, Sherlock," he wheedled. "Go see your big brother. Although he sounds more like your mummy to me."

Sherlock nodded dumbly and took another step. Then, suddenly, he stood up straight and said in a clear voice that dripped with disdain, "He's not my mother. And if you could convince him of that, I'd be eternally grateful."

He spun around and sprang on the consulting criminal with a speed and fierce grace that belied his former lethargy. After a scuffle, he twisted Moriarty's arm behind his back and held him in place with a forearm pressed against his throat.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft laid Molly carefully on an oblong cement block near the wall and hurried toward them. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I am. Before he abducted me, Mr. Moriarty here failed to check my patient record. It would have informed him that as a former addict, I have an unusually high tolerance to the sedative he used."

Mycroft's fingers entered his pocket and closed over the revolver that bounced against his hip. "I believe you did set a bomb," he told the Irishman, who looked amused once his initial surprise had worn off. "That's the only reason why I'm allowing you to leave this place alive."

"You're so thoughtful."

"Next time I won't be, and there will be a next time."

Jim flashed his teeth, which were white and sharp. "I certainly hope so."

Sherlock frowned. "Bomb…. When I was waking up, I heard him speaking to someone about a package left at Bart's. It was a phone conversation. He said something about making sure the timer was set properly."

Bart's. Mycroft went cold, and not because of the frigid temperatures. John and Gregory were safe at his townhouse, but he thought of those people crowded in the waiting area, so ill that they were spending Christmas Day huddled on a plastic chair instead of celebrating with loved ones. When his gloved hand curled into a fist, Moriarty tutted.

"Don't even think about it. You'll never get the location out of me, not before it goes off."

The elder Holmes unclenched his fingers. "Let him go, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't move. "He doesn't deserve to walk away. He killed Victor."

"I know." In Mycroft's book, that was a primary reason to give the consulting criminal a pass, but he knew Sherlock would not see it that way. "You'll have your chance. I don't think Mr. Moriarty will be losing track of us any time soon."

The younger Holmes increased the pressure on Jim's throat, making the smaller man wheeze. "I don't like it."

"Nor do I. But nothing can bring Victor back, and no more people need to die over this." Mycroft took a step forward. If he had to, he'd tackle his brother and force him to relinquish his grip.

Sherlock pressed his lips, which were now blue with cold, against Moriarty's ear. "I'm going to come after you."

Jim cackled. "I'm counting on it. You're more interesting than I originally presumed. Oh, this is turning out to be quite the Merry Christmas all around, isn't it?"

Sherlock released the Irishman and took several unsteady steps back. His breath came out in harsh white puffs and his eyes were fever-bright. Mycroft thought he looked more excited than angry. Moriarty probably didn't know it, but he had given Sherlock the will to live once again. The younger man had initially been drawn back from the abyss by his instant attraction to John Watson, but chasing Moriarty –having a _cause_- gave him a new lease on life.

Moriarty made a big show out of straightening his designer coat and patting his hair back into shape, but his eyes were fixed on Molly. Mycroft had placed a thermal blanket around her to keep her body temperature stable, but apparently that wasn't enough. Jim strolled over to her, took off his coat, and wrapped it gently around her. Gooseflesh quickly broke out on his bare arms, but he lifted her up and cradled her against his chest.

Molly stirred. "Jim?" she murmured without opening her eyes.

"It's me," he answered, voice softening to a lilt. "You're having a dream, is all. Go back to sleep, and then we'll open our presents."

She nodded and relaxed once again.

"Be seeing you soon, boys. This is going to be an interesting ride for all of us," he said, in a tone that managed to be coy and menacing at the same time. Then he disappeared into the shadowy corridor, retracing his original steps, and was soon lost to sight.

Mycroft exhaled loudly and willed his knees to stop shaking. _So close…._

"Let's go, Sherlock," he said. He took off his coat and approached his brother, holding it out. "Let me carry you. You're not wearing shoes."

Sherlock took a step back. He was shaking violently, and not just from cold. "I'm not going back to the hospital," he warned, teeth chattering.

Mycroft looked him in the eye. "Yes, you are. For seventy-two hours, because that's the law. I'll visit you every day with John and Gregory-"

"Who?"

"Lestrade." Mycroft tried not to smile. "Once that time is up, I'll ensure that you're released and you'll go home to Baker Street. With John."

That got Sherlock's attention. "John has agreed to move in with me?"

"Yes. He has."

"He might not stay. Victor didn't."

Mycroft was now close enough to wrap his coat around Sherlock's shivering frame. "John Watson is nothing like Victor Trevor was. During the past twenty-four hours he's seen you under a number of harrowing conditions, and he's still around. In fact, he and Gregory are at my house now, waiting to hear that you're safe. He'll stay, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes said nothing, but the tension ebbed slowly from him and he nodded once. When Mycroft picked him up and began to carry him out of the building, he did not protest. Exhausted by the ordeal and probably soothed by the thought that John would be waiting at Baker Street when he finally went home, he closed his eyes.

When Mycroft emerged into the weak sunlight of the winter morning, a caravan of five black sedans –three of them armoured- turned onto the street. When he'd neglected to text Genna, a retrieval team had been dispatched.

He stood on the icy pavement, ignoring the cold that made his muscles ache, and waited for the cars to pull up. As men and women in dark coats and trousers hurried up, he wondered briefly if they'd passed Moriarty on their way here.

Life was going to be interesting from now on with the world's only consulting criminal (that he knew of, anyway) making the Holmes brothers his pet project. They would be hearing from him soon, just like he'd threatened.

After carefully laying Sherlock out on a pre-warmed car seat, Mycroft sat beside him, retrieved his phone from his coat pocket, and texted Lestrade.

_Sherlock safe. Taking him back to Bart's now. MH_

He knew that Moriarty would uphold his end of the bargain and either directly or indirectly de-activate the bomb at the hospital after leaving Molly someplace safe. The Irishman was a businessman as well as a killer, and a mass slaughter on Christmas Day would be bad for business even when one was a consulting criminal. There was enough of a method to his madness to make him uncommonly dangerous.

After pressing the send key,Mycroft waited. He was both anticipating and dreading Gregory's response. Although he'd kicked up a minimal fuss, the Yarder hadn't been pleased that Mycroft had gone to retrieve Sherlock without him, and he was smart enough to know that he'd been left behind because certain aspects of the rescue would clash violently with the law he'd sworn to uphold. Would he want to pursue a relationship with the elder Holmes any more, knowing that parts of Mycroft's life would remain closed to him?

Gregory's response a minute later answered that question.

_Thank God. John and I will come as soon as we can find a cab. I hated worrying, but you're worth it. GL_

Mycroft smiled so widely that the driver eyed him curiously in the rear view mirror. Not caring who was watching, he laughed for the first time in days and sent a reply.

_So are you. MH._


	17. Chapter 17

_New Year's Eve_

As he climbed the steps to 221B Baker Street, Mycroft admitted that he was impressed with John Watson.

Sherlock had been released from the hospital on December 29th, after both Mycroft and John assured Dr. Stamford that they would monitor him closely. Sherlock had tried to bin his prescribed medication on the first day, but John retrieved the pills and privately gave his new flatmate the daily dosage in tea, juice, and whatever else the younger man could be persuaded to consume. It was underhanded, but necessary when it came to Sherlock. Mycroft approved.

Property-wise, John brought remarkably little into the Baker Street flat. Two suitcases full of clothes, a medical kit, a few books and his army-issued revolver. That was it. But the difference he made in Sherlock's life was huge. His genuine awe of his flatmate's deductive abilities catered to Sherlock's vanity and elevated the younger man's mood. The ex-army doctor was also patient, taking demands for more tea, use of his personal mobile (if Sherlock happened to leave his in the other room), and in general more _attention_ with good humour.

As Mycroft stepped onto the landing, he heard their voices floating out through the flat's open door.

"That man coming out of the café is definitely a veterinarian who just treated a large dog, John."

"I don't see how you can tell from here."

A sigh. "It's a simple matter of paying proper attention. Observe."

Sherlock rattled off a series of 'obvious' physical indicators. Mycroft had actually seen the man in question entering Speedy's Café moments before, and reached the same conclusion as his brother. But to John Watson it was pure magic.

"That's amazing!" he declared.

"Not really," Sherlock said smugly. "Now, more tea, please."

Shaking his head, Mycroft walked into the flat just in time to see John head into the kitchen. "You spoil him, John," he said mildly. "He's perfectly capable of getting his own tea."

Sherlock, who was still standing at the frosted window, spared him a glance before returning his gaze to the street. "I heard you on the stairs," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to wish you and John a happy New Year."

"You could have texted."

"I preferred to come in person."

"Well," Sherlock declared as he turned around, "since you're here you might as well sit. And since John's already in the kitchen, he might as well make you a cup of tea as well."

Mycroft hid his smile. This was progress indeed. Over a week ago, if Sherlock had so much as heard his brother's footsteps on the landing, he'd have flown into a rage.

As Sherlock sat in his chair and picked up his violin, John called from the kitchen, "Good to see you, Mycroft. Any New Year's plans?"

"Yes, thank you for asking. Gregory and I will be attending the ball at the Lanesborough."

John whistled. "Too posh for my blood. We'll will be staying in and ordering Chinese."

Mycroft settled into the chair opposite Sherlock and laid his umbrella across his knees. "There's been no further contact from Moriarty," he said before his brother could ask. "But I doubt he's idle. He'll be in touch."

Sherlock nodded as his long white fingers plucked the violin strings. "I know. I hate to say this after what he did to Victor, but the thought that he could appear any time makes life rather fun again."

"Just be careful, Sherlock. He's not run-of-the-mill."

As far as Mycroft was concerned, any criminal who succeeded in abducting both Holmes brothers within the same 24-hour period deserved his own national alert status.

Sherlock flashed him a look of annoyance. "I know. That's what makes him interesting."

The conversation was interrupted by John bearing three cups of tea on a tray Mrs. Hudson had left behind. When the Holmes brothers were served, he took the remaining cup, added sugar, and perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair.

"Living with my brother seems to suit you, John," Mycroft observed. The former soldier seemed relaxed and happy.

"There's never a dull moment," John admitted. He sipped from his cup. "I talked to Mike Stamford this morning. He says that Molly Hooper has requested two week's leave. Trauma over a breakup with her 'boyfriend'."

"Moriarty dumped her," Sherlock supplied.

"I'm not surprised," Mycroft said. "He didn't want anyone to use her to get to him ever again."

"You really think he cared about her that much?" John asked.

Mycroft nodded. He knew that Molly had broken down when Scotland Yard questioned her about Jim. The girl was too ingenuous: the realization that her boyfriend was a killer floored her, and when Moriarty sent her a text severing their relationship, her devastation was complete. She had no family other than a mother she didn't talk to, so Mycroft had arranged for one of his female operatives to move into the flat across from hers and strike up a friendship- as well as report back if Moriarty had a change of heart and tried to reconcile. Molly's love for the consulting criminal had been misguided, like Sherlock's infatuation for Victor Trevor, but she didn't deserve to suffer.

The three men drank their tea in silence for a few minutes. Mycroft surveyed the apartment, which was now gaudily festive with plastic wreaths, blinking strings of red and white lights, and a few dishes of hard candy. The fact that Sherlock had allowed the holiday spirit to enter the flat confirmed his affection for John.

"Well," Mycroft finally said. He put his teacup on the side table, stood, and re-buttoned his overcoat. "The tea was lovely, John, thank you. I must be going. Sherlock, don't forget your appointment with Dr. Stamford the day after tomorrow."

"Boring. He doesn't tell me anything I don't already know."

Under ordinary circumstances Mycroft would have found Sherlock's dismissive attitude toward his own well-being annoying, but in this instance it was proof that his younger brother was on the mend.

"If you go," John told him, "I'll get those activated alumina samples you need for that experiment. A former classmate owes me a favour."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed, but his eyes gleamed in anticipation. "I'll show up, but don't expect me to listen."

"Just showing up will be fine." John winked at the elder Holmes, who returned the gesture.

After bidding Sherlock and John goodbye and Happy New Year, Mycroft left the flat. He paused on the stairs to take out his phone and text Gregory.

_On my way. MH_

To his amazement, Lestrade texted back, _I'm waiting in your car outside. You said you were going to Baker Street, and I thought I'd save you the trip. GL._

Normally Mycroft hated surprises. But this one made his heart race and an excited flush mottle his cheeks. He practically skipped down the rest of the stairs, causing Mrs. Hudson, who was coming out of her flat with a loaded tea tray, to exclaim with surprise.

"Mr. Holmes! Are you all right? You look feverish."

"Never better, Mrs. Hudson!" he called back as he opened the door. "Happy New Year!"

Snow had fallen during the brief time that Mycroft had been indoors, enabling him to clearly see the footprints that led up Baker Street and stopped beside the rear passenger door next to the curb. He hurried over, ignoring the fluffy white downpour, threw the door open, and jumped into the idling sedan.

Gregory Lestrade was lounging on the heated leather seat, wearing a tightly fitted black overcoat and a grey wool scarf with silver threads that matched his hair. His dark eyes lit up and his lips quirked into a smile when Mycroft sat next to him.

"Happy New Year," he grinned. He'd just gotten his hair trimmed- the elder Holmes could smell sandalwood-scented conditioner. It blended smoothly with his spicy aftershave, creating a scent so exclusively male that Mycroft shivered with arousal.

"Gregory," he breathed. "You look exquisite."

"And you look cold." Lestrade slid an arm around his shoulders and pressed against him.

"I am cold. Positively freezing, in fact." Mycroft shifted on the seat until his thigh worked itself between the other man's knees. "Perhaps I'd better take you back to my house so you can warm me up before the party."

Gregory's lips hovered over his. "Sounds good. Shall I start now?"

Mycroft did not hesitate. "God, yes. Please." As he eagerly unbuttoned Lestrade's coat, he called to the driver (a discreet employee who had been with him for years), "Jensen, just drive about for an hour, please."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes."

When Lestrade laid him on his back, careful not to put pressure on his healing injury, the elder Holmes moaned in anticipation. Gregory silenced him with a forceful kiss that pushed his head into the seat cushion and made him feel both dominated and loved.

It was a dangerous world for Mycroft Holmes right now. In addition to the usual dangers that accompanied his occupation, he and Sherlock were being stalked by the world's only consulting criminal, who was both insidious and resourceful. Future confrontations were guaranteed, and they probably wouldn't go as well as the hostage exchange had.

His logical brain knew all this. But for tonight at least, his newly-awakened passion would guide his actions. As Lestrade unbuttoned his shirt and placed a warm palm over his galloping heart, Mycroft swore that as long as he and Gregory had _this_, a thousand Moriartys would not exceed his ability to cope.

END

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks to all who have followed this story since it began in December. You guys are the best!


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